


The Taming of the Shrew

by Shadowcatxx



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bets & Wagers, Gay Sex, Humor, M/M, Marriage, Mpreg, Parody, References to Shakespeare, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-02 15:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12729255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/pseuds/Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU. Lovino Vargas is a rich Italian heir, whose shrewish nature can't be tamed. Enter the fortune-hunter, Antonio Fernández Carriedo. When a scheming group of courtiers—keen to wed Feliciano, Lovino's very eligible younger brother—convince the Spaniard to marry Lovino to take him off the market, Antonio accepts the offer, which soon becomes a rough-and-tumble farce that the wily Spaniard is determined to win.





	1. ACT I SCENE I

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya  
> Please excuse the use of non-Elizabethan language, as well as my taking liberties with some character names & relationships. This story is a Hetalia-spoof based on Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew (1593-4).
> 
> CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
> 
> GERMANY: Ludwig Beilschmidt (Lucentio)  
> NETHERLANDS: Lars van den Berg (Tranio)  
> ROMA: Roma Vargas (Baptista)  
> ROMANO: Lovino Vargas (Katherina)  
> ITALY: Feliciano Vargas (Bianca)  
> PRUSSIA: Gilbert Beilschmidt (Gremio)  
> FRANCE: Francis Bonnefoi (Hortensio)  
> ENGLAND: Arthur Kirkland (Widow)  
> AMERICA & CANADA: Alfred & Matthew (Widow's children)  
> SPAIN: Antonio Fernàndez Carriedo (Petruchio)  
> RUSSIA: Ivan Braginski (Pedant)  
> GERMANIA: Herr Beilschmidt (Vincentio)

**PADUA**

**_a public place._ **

 

**_Enter_ ** **LUDWIG _and_ LARS.**

Ludwig Beilschmidt, the twenty-year-old son of the noble House of Beilschmidt, was sitting on a low garden wall beneath a blooming yellow tulip tree, a heavy leather book open upon his lap. He flipped a crinkled page, bored. His loyal companion and first-cousin Lars van den Berg looked sideways at him and sighed. They had arrived in Lombardy the week before, as they were studying their way across the map of northern Italy on Herr Beilschmidt's bottomless funds. It had been he—a wealthy German merchant—who had commissioned the trip, with the intention that his two sons and nephew receive a rounded education if they were someday going to inherit his trade empire. He trusted the young men's judgement and self-discipline, which is why they travelled with no tutor to supervise their activities. First the trio had visited Pisa, then Florence, and now beautiful Padua. It was a rich, fruitful city, the garden of Lombardy. It was a nursery of the fine arts, a place of ingenious studies. Here, the young men had the opportunity to learn philosophy, rhetoric, music, mathematics, metaphysics—! The privilege to learn in the cradle that had birthed the prolific great thinkers of ancient times! And yet...

                "I'm so bored," said Lars flatly, closing a book. "This heat is cooking my brain."

                Ludwig glanced at the tall clock-tower in the piazza. It was noon and the sun was at its sweltering meridian in the cloudless sky. He, too, felt overdressed in his layered finery; a symbol of his high-born status. A trickle of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. He hooked his index-finger beneath a decrepit page and turned it lethargically. The sun's glare reflected off the yellowed paper and he blinked, feeling groggy. The subject was dry; the language difficult to understand. He longed to do something physical, but he was determined to fulfil his father's wishes (even if he was the only one).

                "Ludwig." Lars reached over and closed the book on Ludwig's finger. He flinched. "I admire your devotion to your studies, really I do. But it's time for a break," he said, trying to pry the book from his cousin.

                Ludwig shrugged him off. "No, I should—"

                "We've been studying since breakfast," Lars justified, "I can't absorb any more today. Besides," he smirked in a rakish way, his sage-coloured eyes flitting sideways, "I don't think it's philosophy we should be studying right now."

 

**_Enter_ ** **ROMA, LOVINO, FELICIANO, GILBERT _and_ FRANCIS.**

 

                "No?" Ludwig asked obliviously. "Then what?"

                "Anatomy," his cousin replied.

                "Anatomy?"

                Discretely, Lars inclined his head in the direction of the sunny town square, where a party of gentleman had gathered. Ludwig's sky-blue eyes took note of the proud Italian patriarch—Roma Vargas; the richest man in Padua—who was speaking sternly to two young courtiers. A handsome Frenchman, dressed fashionably in sapphire; his long, roguish curls shone in the piercing sunlight like spun-gold. And—coincidentally—Ludwig's older brother, who's stark albinism made his skin glow like a lit lantern muffled by layers of black clothes. "Is that Gilbert?" he asked needlessly. He suppressed a sigh. Of course it was Gilbert, the cheeky scamp! Gilbert was supposed to have met he and Lars at their hotel hours ago to tutor his younger relatives, but he especially wasn't taking the educational trip seriously. Since they had arrived in Padua, he hadn't returned to the hotel once. Ludwig doubted that he had forgotten his duties as the eldest; most likely, he had found something more deserving of his fickle attention.

                "He's supposed to be tutoring us in Latin," Ludwig grumbled disapprovingly to Lars. But Lars wasn't paying attention. He was staring at the party in slack-jawed awe. "Lars—?"

                Lars whistled low. " _Wow_ ," he exhaled. "Would you look at those two beauties?"

                At first Ludwig only saw his brother and the flamboyant Frenchman, and he cast his Dutch cousin a rather confused look. Then Gilbert stepped restlessly aside and revealed the most beautiful boy that Ludwig had ever seen. He looked like a golden-eyed angel, dressed modestly in creamy damask, which hugged his delicate figure; so soft and serene and silent. His rich auburn head was bowed respectfully, his lovely lips pressed shut as his elders conversed. He stood obediently beside Roma—his grandfather; the familial resemblance was obvious—and didn't so much as bat a long eyelash, even though his marital status was the topic-of-conversation. Ludwig stared bashfully, struck dumb by the young Italian. He barely noticed the other boy standing beside him.

                "Gentleman, please," Roma was saying, "you will not influence me on this matter. I will accept no proposals for my sweet Feliciano until Lovino is wed. The elder of my grandsons must be married first. If either of you wishes to declare love for Lovino"—he gestured to the sullen older boy—"then you have my leave to court him at your pleasure."

                Lovino bristled, red-faced in insult. "What am I, Grandpapa? A piece of meat?" he spat viciously. "Are you so afraid I'll spoil that you're willing to sell me off to these cheap bastards?"

                "Meat? _Ha_!" the Frenchman laughed snidely. "I wouldn't buy you at a discount, Lovino Vargas. Not without a little tenderizing first. If only you were a little gentler, a little milder—"

                "Oh, shut up, you frog-eating bastard!"

                "Lovino!" scolded the patriarch.

                Lars snorted. "That boy is stark mad," he said to Ludwig, enjoying the show, "or very willful. Either way, he's not to my taste. Am I right? Ludwig? Hey," he added, noting his cousin's focused gaze. He snapped his fingers in front of Ludwig's face.

                "Oh, sorry. I was just..."

                "Staring shamelessly at the lovely _Feliciano_?" Lars teased.

                Ludwig blushed, but squared his broad shoulders and sat straighter. "I'm merely impressed by his sobriety."

                "Sure," said Lars, grinning. "It's got nothing to do with how drop-dead gorgeous he is."

                Ludwig grunted, sky-blue eyes transfixed on the youngest Italian.

                "Yes, of course," Feliciano was saying to Roma. "I'll focus solely on my studies if that is what you wish of me. Books will be my only companions until you order me otherwise, sir; until my brother, Lovino, is married. I trust your judgement, because I know that you only want the best for us. I'm yours to command, dearest Grandpapa," he smiled, inclining his head in submission.

                A smile tugged absently at Ludwig's lips. The boy was perfect. _He's so well-behaved_ ; _so selfless and kind_ ; _so polite and obedient and disciplined_. _So very_ , _very beautiful. I want him_ , he decided. It was a sudden feeling, but a strong one. A true one. _I want that boy_ , _Feliciano Vargas_ , _to be my spouse._

                "I hardly think that's fair," said Gilbert, annoyed. Ludwig frowned, reminded of his brother's—now rival's—unwanted presence. "For this fiendish hellcat," he glared accusingly at Lovino, "you're going to punish Feliciano, too? You're condemning him to a life alone, Signore Vargas, because, trust me, no one is _ever_ going to want that shrew!"

                "Yes, I agree," seconded the Frenchman. "Why, he'd have to be just as raving-mad himself to want Lovino!"

                "Mad?" Lovino repeated darkly. He clenched his jaw and fists, and his face had gone tomato-red; in anger or humiliation, Ludwig didn't know. "Then all of Padua has gone mad! I would sooner die then wed either of you shallow bastards!" he shrieked, storming off.

 

**_Exit_ ** **LOVINO.**

 

                "I won't apologize," said Roma hoarsely. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed of his heir. "Lovino must be wed before I consider anyone for Feliciano's hand, is that understood?" Both young suitors nodded glumly. "I'm glad. I dislike confrontation between friends." Roma smiled, as if the matter was settled. "Now come, my dearest Feliciano," he said, parading the angel away. Over-the-shoulder, he added: "If either of you wishes to endear himself to me, then find me the finest tutor for my darling grandson. I'll pay handsomely for good teachers. _Ciao_!"

 

**_Exit_ ** **ROMA _and_ FELICIANO.**

 

                "That little shrew can go to hell for all I care," said Gilbert sulkily, crossing his arms. "I'm not _that_ desperate to be married. I have absolutely no interest in Lovino Vargas, but you're more than welcome to him, Frenchie. In fact, I encourage it. The only thing I want is Feliciano. I can't wait for him to be mine," he said dreamily. "He and I would be the perfect match. My family is rich and powerful. Feliciano would be well provided for with me as his husband. I'd make sure of it. I can be _very_ charming, you know," he bragged (rather insolently). "I really am the most awesome choice to marry that sweet little thing."

                Francis tut in disagreement. "I think not," he replied, but his attention was elsewhere. He looked thoughtful. Eventually a sly grin curled his lips. "Say, Gilbert?" he said conspiratorially. "I know that we're not exactly allies, but—for the sake of Feliciano—I think it would be in both of our best interests to work together to solve this little problem, don't you agree? If we could find someone to wed _the shrew_ ," he chuckled, "then that would put Feliciano back on the market. Let's just put our rivalry on-hold until Lovino has been wed, what do you say?"

                Gilbert cocked a silver-white eyebrow in disbelief. "Do you really think there's a man out there who wants to marry into hell? I'd rather endure daily torture than have to put up with him. I like my boys much better behaved than _that._ Anyone who takes Lovino would have to be a shrew-taming champion."

                "Oh, come now," Francis goaded. "Just because neither of us wants Lovino doesn't mean someone else won't. Some men like a challenge. And Lovino Vargas is certainly a challenge... and incredibly wealthy.  His dowry is worth a fortune, remember. All we have to do is find a man who values money more than love."

                Gilbert grunted. "Frankly, I'd pay _him_ to take Lovino off the market," he said.

                Ludwig eavesdropped on the gentlemen's conversation until it evolved into other topics that did not concern the courtship of Feliciano Vargas. _All's the better_ , he thought. He had no interest at all in the strong-willed Lovino; let the two of them scheme out how best to deal with him. Ludwig's heart yearned only for Feliciano... not that he would ever describe his feelings like that, of course, or entertain the notion of love-at-first-sight. No. His desire for Feliciano was purely altruistic. It simply made good, logical sense to choose the loveliest, kindest, most obedient spouse.

                "Oh, my," Lars mocked in a cloying tone. "You're completely infatuated, aren't you, dear cousin?"

                Ludwig felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment. "No, don't be absurd," he denied. "I was just considering how cruel Signore Vargas is being by punishing Feliciano for Lovino's faults." As a second-born son, himself, Ludwig knew first-hand what it was like to take the blame for a troublesome older brother. "I suppose it's nice of him to care about the boy's education, at least. He's eager to hire a good tutor for him."

                Lars' crafty sage-coloured eyes suddenly lit. He snapped his fingers with gusto. "Ludwig!" he grinned. "I have an idea. We should disguise _you_ as a schoolmaster and present you to Signore Vargas as a tutor for Feliciano. It'll get you close enough to win his affection so that, by the time you reveal your true self, Feliciano will have fallen so in love with you that he'll beg his grandfather to let you marry him."

                Ludwig pursed his lips, hiding a smile. "Do you really think that will work?"

                "Yes," said Lars confidently. He stood. "All we have to do is switch identities. Signore Vargas is expecting the Beilschmidt brothers, but he's only met Gilbert so far. He doesn't know what you look like, Lud, and he doesn't know anything about my presence. If you pretend to be me, we can tell him you're a tutor. I'll pretend to be you and begin negotiations for a marriage proposal. Then, once everything is arranged, we'll switch back. You can wed Feliciano, and I'll have been thoroughly entertained by the whole thing."

                Ludwig eyed Lars skeptically. True, he and his first-cousin did look enough alike to fool someone who hadn't ever met them. Even if Ludwig's appearance had been described to Roma, Lars would easily fit the same description, but Gilbert would reveal the lie if they didn't warn him not to.

                "Gilbert can't know that I intend to wed Feliciano," Ludwig said in consent.

                "No, you're right. Hmm... Oh! I know!" Lars was having fun playing the puppet-master. He grinned wickedly, and said: "Let's have Gilbert present you to Signore Vargas as _his_ gift. Gilbert will think that you're doing him a favour by getting close to Feliciano; talking him up, you know? But in reality you'll be laying the groundwork to steal the boy right out from under him. Gilbert is too trusting to expect that you, of all people, would betray him. It'll be hilarious!"

                Ludwig frowned. "It sounds cruel."

                Lars exhaled in exasperation. "Are you in love with Feliciano or not?"

                "Yes," said Ludwig in reflex. He blushed.

                Lars smiled. "Then you've got to be merciless, Lud. You don't want to lose the boy to someone else, do you?"

                "No," Ludwig growled.

                Lars clapped him companionably on the shoulder. "Good. Now hurry up trade clothes with me before anyone spots us. This just became a game, Lud, and you and I are going to win."

 

**_Exit_ ** **LUDWIG _and_ LARS.**

 

* * *

**_Enter_ ** **ALFRED.**

 

A small, golden-headed blur crashed suddenly into Francis' legs before tumbling clumsily into the street. Hooves like thunder signalled the speedy approach of a carriage. In reflex, the Frenchman dove forward and grabbed a fistful of a satin-blue coat, pulling the five-year-old back to safety as a carriage sped by. A moment later, a furious English accent shouted:

                " _Alfred_!"

 

**_Enter_ ** **ARTHUR _and_ MATTHEW.**

 

                A golden-haired young Englishman was rushing across the square, toting a second child by his tiny hand. He nearly flew, missing steps as his father pulled him. The gentleman's Lincoln-green eyes were wide with worry. "Alfred Kirkland!" he raged in panic. Letting go of the second child—the second of twin boys—he bent down and snatched the blue-eyed child from the protective circle of Francis' arms. Briefly, he crushed the child to his chest in a relieved hug; then he held him at arm's length to inspect him for damage. Once satisfied, he straightened, took both children by the hands, and addressed Francis.

                "Thank-you," he said, inclining his head gratefully. "I owe you a great debt, sir." Spotting Gilbert, he nodded politely. "Herr Beilschmidt."

                "Mister Kirkland," Gilbert acknowledged in reply.

                As they left, Francis heard the Englishman scolding the blue-eyed child. "What have I told you about running off like that, Alfred? The streets are dangerous! You must always stay with me when we're out. That goes for you, too, Matthew. Do you both understand?"

                "Yes, Daddy," the children chimed.

 

**_Exit_ ** **ARTHUR, ALFRED _and_ MATTHEW.**

 

                "Do you know that man?" Francis asked Gilbert, watching the family's hasty departure. "He's very beautiful."

                "I guess," Gilbert bobbed his head noncommittally. "His name is Arthur Kirkland. He's from London, I think, but he was married to an Italian aristocrat. I've only met him a few times, but I knew his husband through a friend."

                " _Knew_?"

                "He's dead. Arthur's a widow. An _exceedingly_ wealthy widow, by the way. He's almost as independently rich as Roma Vargas. He comes from a land-rich family. They're very influential in the British Isles—not that anyone really cares about the British Isles." He shrugged. "Cute twins, though," he added in afterthought.

                "Yes, very adorable," Francis agreed. "Kirkland, you say? I don't recognize the name, but he seemed rather dignified—despite being an Englishman. Not a virgin, obviously, but he's still young. Doesn't he have any suitors after his money?"

                "No." Gilbert shrugged blithely. "It's probably because of the rumours. Let's just say, the circumstances of his late-husband's death were a little suspicious."

                Francis frowned. "Oh? How so?"

                "I knew his late-husband," the German repeated hesitantly. "He... wasn't a nice man. It was no secret that he abused Arthur, and that's putting it gently. I wouldn't be surprised if those cute little twins were conceived by rape. Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't the Italian's sons at all. Honestly, I wouldn't even blame Arthur if they weren't. The twins look nothing alike the Italian did. Anyway," Gilbert began anew, "Arthur was only fifteen when he was married to the man, who was a lot older—and bigger—than him. It was a bad bargain from the start; I don't know who arranged it. But everyone knew that he used to beat the living-hell out of Arthur whenever he could."

                Francis felt his stomach knot, but he said: "It's not illegal for a husband to beat his spouse."

                "No," Gilbert ceded, "but it was more than just disciplinary, much more. It was ugly. I saw it a few times. The man was a violent, short-tempered drunk, but Arthur endured it. He's got pride, I'll give him that. He played the good spouse and never fought back, he never made a scene. In fact, he never said a word. Then one day the fucking bastard went after the twins instead."

                This time, Francis couldn't suppress a gasp of horror. " _Les bébés_?"

                Gilbert nodded. "The next day, he was dead."

                "Arthur killed him?"

                Gilbert shrugged. "I don't know, no one does. But I wouldn't put it past the crazy Brit, or blame him if he did. He's fiercely protective of those twins."

                "Surely there was an inquiry if the Italian died so suddenly?" Francis asked.

                "Yes, of course there was, but there wasn't any evidence of foul-play. Not that there would've been," Gilbert added. "I should probably tell you, Arthur Kirkland has a reputation for being something of a... chemist," he chose his words carefully, reading Francis' reaction.

                "Poison?"

                Gilbert glanced from left-to-right and lowered his voice for privacy. "A practitioner of the Black Arts," he said secretly. "Take my advice, friend, and abandon any interest you have in Arthur Kirkland right now. He's not worth it."

                Francis scoffed at the German's warning. " _Oh_ , _please_ ," he said self-importantly. "Rest assured, my friend, I have absolutely no interest in _any_ Englishmen. It was mere curiosity, nothing more. My heart, as you know, belongs to Feliciano."

 

**_Exit_ ** **FRANCIS _and_ GILBERT.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you for reading the first installment of The Taming of the Shrew. I wrote it as a side-project to my other, more serious works. (I have a bad habit of working on too many projects at once.) The cast was chosen based on which Hetalia characters I thought best fit each role. Please excuse my taking liberties with the Hetalia cast, as well as a few of Shakespeare's original characters; and for expanding scenes via my own interpretation. For example, I changed the role of Tranio when I cast Netherlands. Despite Netherlands' stereotypical stoicism, I've always considered him to be a rather clever and crafty character who's rarely given enough credit in history. Who better to mastermind a marriage scheme, eh? Also, I included America and Canada for two reasons: a) because it gives England's character more depth; and b) because I can't resist the fluff-factor and adorableness of the FACE family.
> 
> I hope you all continue to enjoy Act I, Scene II!
> 
> Cheers,
> 
> Shadowcatxx


	2. Act I Scene II

**PADUA**

**_at Francis' villa_ ** **.**

 

 ** _Enter_** **ANTONIO**.

 

Antonio Fernández Carriedo was a gentleman of his own wily invention. As the unacknowledged bastard-son of a nobleman and a Commedia dell'arte actress, he knew how to play a part to get exactly what he wanted. He had acted many roles throughout his twenty-five years, despite never having set foot on stage. He was very good at reading people and situations, and he had a talent for twisting other people's woes to his advantage. A boy of modest fortune—that is to say, none—Antonio had learnt to be both scavenger and magician. His trick was in collecting what others had cast aside and transforming it into something enviable. He loved having what everyone else wanted. It was devilishly satisfying to watch powerful people gape in shock as Antonio paraded by with their refashioned castoffs. He was a proud man; too proud, perhaps. And his cunning was outweighed only by his insatiable greed.

 

**_Enter_ ** **FRANCIS.**

 

                Francis greeted his old friend with a kiss on each cheek. "Toni! What a surprise! What brings you to Padua?"

                As Francis ushered Antonio into his lavish summerhouse, the Spaniard regaled his friend with a _mostly true_ tale of his absent father's sudden demise. "He left me some money. Not much, mind, but enough to travel in comfort. I've just come from Verona, and, if I'm being perfectly honest, I'm here to fatten my purse. As it turns out, I quite like the rich lifestyle of a gentleman," he smiled.

                "Oh?" Francis arched an eyebrow inquisitively.

                "I think it's finally time I settled down. I'm twenty-five now, after all." Antonio grinned transparently. "It's time for me to find a filthy rich spouse so I can live the rest of my life in comfort."

                "Oh, really? Well, if it's money you're after, I know the perfect candidate," Francis joked. "A nasty little shrew called Lovino Vargas. To be honest, I wouldn't wish him upon my worst enemies, Toni, and you're one of my dearest friends. But Lovino's family _is_ incredibly wealthy and the boy has no suitors."

                "Francis," Antonio clapped the Frenchman's shoulder companionably, "if this boy is as rich as you say he is, I don't care how he acts. Ugly, old, shrewish—I don't care as long as he's rich."

                "Really—?" Francis asked skeptically. He studied his friend. "Personally, I wouldn't wed Lovino Vargas for all the money in the world, but I'd be happy to introduce you to him if you want?"

                "Yes, please!" Antonio smiled eagerly. "In fact, the sooner the better! Let's go now!"

                "Okay, but wait a minute, Toni. I just had a brilliant idea!" Francis beamed. "But I'll need your help. You see, it's my intention to marry Lovino's perfect younger brother, Feliciano." Quickly, Francis gave Antonio an abbreviated version of his predicament. "Roma Vargas is looking to hire a tutor for Feliciano," Francis explained. "If I disguise my appearance, then you can present me to Roma as a private tutor. It will endear you to Roma as a suitor, and free me to woo Feliciano with sweet, _sweet_ music. I'll teach him to play the lute." He winked. Antonio nodded in approval. "It's a perfect plot because it benefits us both. What do you say?"

                "I say, yes, let's go—we're wasting daylight!"

                " _C'est magnifique_! Hurry, Toni, give me your clothes."

 

**_Exit_ ** **FRANCIS _and_ ANTONIO.**

 

* * *

**_at Roma's villa._ **

 

**_Enter_ ** **FRANCIS ( _as Francois_ ) _and_ ANTONIO.**

 

Dear God, Toni, your trousers are _very_ tight," said Francis, shuffling uncomfortably. They stood in front of the Vargas' house, awaiting entry. It was a towering white-stone villa bedecked in ripe blood-red roses. It reminded Antonio of fairytale castles. He could almost picture his soon-to-be betrothed looking down upon him from the highest window of the tallest tower. He ignored the Frenchman's fussing, until Francis straightened and asked:

                "How do I look?"

                Despite sharing a supple, aristocratic figure, both being the same weight, Francis was the taller and thinner gentleman by a mere couple of inches. The difference was so miniscule it would not have been noticeable while the men wore their own tailored clothes, however, Antonio's shirtsleeves were just short enough on Francis' longer limbs to reveal a gap; nor were his trousers long enough to accommodate the Frenchman's longer torso and legs, which left his ankles an inch bare and caused the tight hose to ride up. Antonio studied his friend from head-to-toe, and replied:

                "You look like you have fleas. Quit fidgeting," he advised.

 

**_Enter_ ** **GILBERT, LUDWIG ( _as Lars_ ), _and_ LARS ( _as Ludwig_ ).**

 

                "Oh, no. What are they doing here?" Francis deflated. He was peering over Antonio's shoulder, a disgruntled look on his face.

                Antonio pivoted and found himself face-to-face with a trio of young gentlemen, who were too similar in looks to be anything but relatives. There was a shared handsomeness in their tall, fair, Aryan features, but Antonio was not intimidated. The Spaniard's wily charm and passion had never failed to steal the attention from a northerner's chilly forthrightness—nor any potential love-interest, for that matter—and Antonio didn't consider any of them competition now, especially if Lovino was as shrewish as Francis described. He was confident that he could win the boy's heart; and if not, then break it beyond repair. No matter the game, Antonio always played to win.

                "Remember," Francis whispered urgently to Antonio, "I'm just a music instructor whose name is Francois."

                Antonio nodded, watching the trio's fast approach.

                "Make sure it's only love stories that he studies," Gilbert was saying to Ludwig. "Latin is one of those fancy, flowery languages," he waved in dismissal, "the sort of thing boys like Feliciano fall head-over-heels for, so use it when you're bragging about me. Make me sound like one of those tragic poet types, okay?"

                "Yes, okay. Love stories, got it," Ludwig agreed. Behind him, Lars was biting the inside of his cheek to keep a straight-face. "Don't worry, brother, Feliciano will be in _very_ good hands."

                Lars snorted.

                Gilbert cast him a curious, untrustworthy glance, but before he could comment, he spotted the duo awaiting entry to the Vargas' house.

                "Hello," he said dubiously, forehead creasing in uncertainty. He briefly surveyed Francis in disinterest before his wine-red eyes landed suspiciously on Antonio. "Who are you?"

                "Antonio Fernández Carriedo," Antonio bowed. "And this is my, uh... servant, Francois. He's a music tutor. I heard that the master of this house is in need of one."

                "Gilbert Beilschmidt," said Gilbert unenthusiastically. "Ludwig Beilschmidt"—he pointed to Lars—"and Lars van den Berg"—he pointed to Ludwig. "No doubt you've heard of us, but I've never heard of _you_ , Spaniard. What are you doing here? If you're here to court Feliciano," he said quickly, before Antonio could reply, "then you can just turn around and walk away, because Feliciano is _mine_ — _comprende_?"

                Antonio couldn't hide the grin that curled his velvety lips. The albino's challenging gaze was wolfish. Antonio liked him immediately.

                "No, no," he shook his head and surrendered his hands in peace. "There's no need for that, my friend. I'm not here to see Feliciano. I'm here to see Lovino."

                The shock on the trio's faces made Antonio happy. He was a big fan of _shock-factor_.

                "Lovino?" Gilbert repeated in disbelief. " _Lovino Vargas_ —?"

                "Yes, of course," said Antonio cheerfully. "As soon as my friend Francis Bonnefoi told me about him, I really couldn't resist."

                "Oh, so you're a friend of Francis? And he, uh, told you _everything_ about Lovino?" Gilbert asked hesitantly, trying to gauge Antonio's intelligence on the subject.

                Antonio chuckled. "Worry not," he said, beaming, "Francis has already warned me that Lovino is a hateful, brawling scold, but if that's all he is then I see no problems. I'm not afraid of an eighteen-year-old boy, no matter how loud he roars. I'm well-equipped to deal with him, I assure you. I am a shrew-taming king," he stated proudly, holding his head high.

                Gilbert exchanged a contemplative glance with Ludwig, who shrugged benignly. "It's your funeral, Spaniard," he said, "but if you've got the stomach to woo that awful hellcat, then you've got my unconditional support. In fact, I'll personally reimburse you for any and all costs if you can convince Lovino to marry you." That said, the albino finally revealed a friendly smile and he slapped Antonio's bicep in a companionable—accidentally too forceful—way. Antonio stumbled a bit, but he smiled back good-humouredly.

                "Thank-you," he said politely. "I'm much obliged, gentlemen."

                Then the Vargas' front door swung open.

 

**_Exit_ ** **ANTONIO, FRANCIS, GILBERT, LUDWIG _and_ LARS.**


	3. Act II Scene I

**PADUA**

**_at Roma's villa_ ** **.**

 

**_Enter_ ** **LOVINO _and_ FELICIANO.**

 

Lovino Vargas sat perched atop his younger brother's back, whose delicate hands he had tied with a silken scarf. Feliciano lay sprawled on his stomach on the floor, face pink in distress as he wriggled and whined pitifully for freedom.

                " _Get off_! _Get off of me_ , _Lovino_!" he cried. " _Let me go_ , _you horrible brother_! _Grandpapa_ , _help_!"

                Lovino ignored his brother's helpless act, taking pride in the fact that he was the stronger, and he grabbed a chunk of Feliciano's auburn locks. "Tell me!" he demanded. "Tell me who you met in the gardens last night! Don't lie to me, I saw you there!" he snarled over Feliciano's wails. "I saw you with _some man_!"

                "Lovino, please get off," Feliciano's high-pitched voice warbled in surrender. "I'll tell you, okay? I'll tell you, just please let me go!"

                "Do you promise?" Lovino asked.

                "Yes, of course! I would never lie to my elders— _you old spinster_!" he added viciously.

                Lovino growled and pushed Feliciano's cheek to the floor. "You're such a fake, Feliciano! How is it no one can see that but me? Everyone thinks you're so perfect, but you're not! All of those men—"

                "Jealous, brother?" Feliciano interjected venomously. "If you get off of me, you can have as many of them as you want. Take them all, I don't care. It's quite sad, really, that I have so many suitors while you haven't got _any_. And you being _so much older_."

                Infuriated, Lovino raised his hand for leverage and then slapped Feliciano across the face.

 

**_Enter_ ** **ROMA.**

 

                "Lovino!" Roma scolded, striding in through the bedchamber door. "Lovino, stop it right now!" He grabbed Lovino under the arms and hauled him right off his feet, freeing Feliciano. Lovino squirmed and kicked at the patron, spitting viciously, but Roma's strength was unmatched. To a spectator, they might have looked like an old alpha-wolf holding an unruly pup. Feliciano whimpered as he crawled to his feet.

                "I saw Feliciano with some man!" Lovino blabbed. "I saw your precious angel tonsil-deep in some stranger in the garden!"

                "Lovino, that's enough!" Roma ordered. He looked annoyed, having had this same tired conversation with his eldest grandson before. "It's not nice to say such things about your own brother," he scolded, refusing to believe Lovino's accusation. And who could blame him anyway? Feliciano looked so innocent. Next to him, Lovino looked like a hateful, jealous shrew.

                _But I'm not a liar_ , he thought, glaring indignantly. Lovino Vargas might have been many things, but he had never been a liar.

                The second Lovino's feet touched the floor, he tried to lunge at Feliciano, who was smirking at him behind Roma's back. " _Ah_!" the younger squeaked helplessly, and hid behind Roma.

                "Lovino, leave Feliciano alone!" Roma demanded.

                "You always take his side!" Lovino yelled, red-faced in distress. He clenched his fists and stomped his foot in a childish tantrum. "He's a liar, but you don't even care, do you? Because everyone likes him better than me, even you! It's because you love him more than me! You always have!"

                "Lovino, that's not—"

                "Leave me alone!" He spun on his heels and dashed out of the room before either Roma or Feliciano could see the angry tears in his eyes.

 

**_Exit_ ** **LOVINO.**

 

                "Master Vargas," said an old footman. His face was politely vague, though he must have passed Lovino in the corridor, fleeing in distress. The household were accustomed to the boy's tantrums and paid them little heed, because none of them wanted to become a target of his wrath. Respectfully, the footman inclined his head to Roma. "A party of gentleman awaiting to see you, Signore. They've been shown to the south salon."

                "A party of gentleman?" Roma repeated inquisitively. He glanced at Feliciano. "I'm not expecting company."

                Roma left Feliciano in his bedchamber and strode to the salon to greet his unexpected guests.

 

**_Exit_ ** **FELICIANO.**

 

**_Enter_ ** **GILBERT, LUDWIG, LARS, ANTONIO _and_ FRANCIS.**

 

                "Ah, Herr Beilschmidt," Roma said, recognizing Gilbert but no one else. He took Gilbert's hand politely, then awaited introductions from the others.

                "My younger brother, Ludwig," Gilbert said, directing Roma's attention to Lars. "And this is my cousin Lars van den Berg. He's a schoolmaster and very proficient in Latin," he lied, waving forth Ludwig, who bowed. "When you said that you needed a tutor for Feliciano, I thought of him at once."

                "Thank-you," said Roma to Gilbert, ignoring Ludwig and his supposed lower-status. "I'm grateful." Then his molten-gold gaze swiveled to Antonio and Francis, neither of whom he recognized. "And who are you two?" he asked bluntly.

                "Antonio Fernández Carriedo, at your service, Signore," said Antonio with a flamboyant flourish. He smiled cheerfully, as if honoured by the patron's attention. "I'm a friend of Francis Bonnefoi," he said, and then fed the party the preconceived tale of his lineage (an equivocation of the bawdy truth), which made him seem arrogantly genteel. "And this"—he snapped his fingers abrasively—"is Francois, my music instructor. Francis said that you were in the market for decent tutors, yes? He also said, if I might be so bold, Signore, that you have a beautiful grandson called Lovino. He told me of the boy's unique charm, his wit, his virtue, and his _passionate_ disposition. Naturally, I am very interested to see him for myself, and perhaps present myself as a suitor for the boy's hand in marriage—?" He bowed again in humble submission.

                Roma merely stared at him. "Lovino?" he parroted, puzzled. "You want to see... Lovino?"

                Antonio's lips curled into a smirk. "Is the boy not everything Francis told me?" he asked, feigning innocence.

                "Oh, yes! I mean, of course he is!" Roma recovered. "It's just... you may find Bonnefoi's description rather generous once you've actually met my Lovino. But I am pleased!" he hurried, too eager to entertain Lovino's potential suitor. " _Very_ pleased for your presence! Lovino is difficult, but I'm sure he'll be flattered by your interest," he lied less smoothly than either Gilbert or Antonio had. "You're very young and handsome, after all."

                "That I am," said Antonio conceitedly. Francis rolled his eyes. "I can't wait to meet the boy who might soon be my betrothed. Say, Signore Vargas—?" He paused politely. "Not that it really matters, of course; I'm sure to fall in love with Lovino at first-sight, but... What _is_ his dowry worth, if I may ask?"

                "Twenty-thousand crowns and the value of half my lands," Roma replied, business-like.

                Antonio tightly pursed his lips, trying to look contemplative as he hid a hungry grin. "Very fair, Signore. Very fair, indeed. On my part," he added, sweetening the bribe, "if I die before Lovino, I swear that he'll inherit everything I possess. Everything I own" (which was nothing, but Roma didn't need to know that) "will be his. In fact, I'd be willing to sign a contract right now!"

                "Certainly," Roma smiled pleasantly. "As soon as you've gotten the most important thing, of course, which is Lovino's love."

                "Oh, that'll be nothing," Antonio waved dismissively. He lifted his chin in an animal show of dominance. "I'm as commanding as he is proud, like two flames, Signore. And when two fires meet..." He let the insinuation linger, a competitive spark in his emerald-green eyes. "They burn until they've consumed each other, until there's nothing left. Worry not, my fire will outlast Lovino's, I'm positive of it. Your grandson may be a passionate boy, but a boy he is. I," he stated proudly, "am a man."

                "Well said! And good luck," said Roma, clapping Antonio's shoulder in support. "I fear you may need it. In good time you'll meet my Lovino, Señor, and then we'll see how brave you really are."

 

**_Exit_ ** **ROMA, ANTONIO, GILBERT _and_ LARS.**

 

* * *

**_Exit_ ** **LUDWIG.**

 

Francis felt a stab of envy as he parted ways with the tutor Lars (Ludwig), who was being shown to Feliciano's study, while he was being led by a footman to Lovino's. He hadn't considered that both tutors would be required to tutor both boys, and he was bothered by the fact that Lars (Ludwig) would be alone with Feliciano— _his_ Feliciano—for the duration of an uninterrupted lesson. _I really didn't think this through_ , he thought regrettably as he entered Lovino's study. It was a cramped, untidy space with a single small window too high to filter in much sunlight. Instead it was lit by candles, casting elongated shadows that gave the room a foreboding feel, as if a great danger lurked in the corners. Francis cleared his throat to announce his presence.

                "Lovino?" he called.

 

**_Enter_ ** **LOVINO.**

 

                "Who the hell are you?" said the boy, emerging from a door hidden in the panelled wall. The suddenness of his appearance made the Frenchman flinch. Lovino grinned, sensing the tutor's anxiety. He fed on it like a beast. "Are you the tutor Grandpapa requested? _Pft_!" He slid effortlessly onto a desk, his movements as languid as a cat's. "I bet you're sorry it's me and not sweet Feliciano, aren't you? I bet you wanted him, like everyone else does. But you've got me instead. I bet you're wishing you had never come here."

                Francis couldn't deny that he would have preferred Feliciano's company, yet... there was something sensual about Lovino's posture; the tilt of his head; the fire reflected in his hazel-gold eyes; the confidence of his voice when he spoke. Francis may not have been interested in taming Lovino, but he couldn't deny how _very_ attractive the boy was. _If he would only keep his mouth shut_... He sighed, thinking of all the improvements the boy would need to be considered an amiable spouse. _He's completely feral_ , he thought, letting his eyes ravish the boy. _Antonio might have his hands full with this one_. _But maybe—_ he moved slowly closer, a suggestive glimmer in his eyes— _I could have my hands full of him_ , _too._

                "Let's begin the lesson, shall we?" he asked, sliding onto the desk beside Lovino. He presented a beautiful lute, crafted in France. Lovino was not impressed. He sat with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Francis with stark boredom. "Take it," Francis ordered, a tad short. He forced the instrument into the boy's delicate hands, then he began rearranging each finger on the strings. He pressed closer to the boy, undeniably attracted to his sullen glare. It was exciting, somehow. Usually Francis liked to be the seducer in the exchange. He liked to be the one in control, the one wooing his intended conquest, charming him with flowery flattery and sweet promises (lies). He liked to see them fall head-over-heels for his, _ahem_ , talents. He liked them to beg him, and praise him, and thank him for it afterward. No one had ever _fought_ him before. No one had ever challenged his act before, or made him work to romance them. Francis Bonnefoi was a veritable Casanova wherever he went. He had looks, wealth, charm, and a rather seductive reputation that usually excited his bedmates. Men, women. They may have feigned shyness or played hard-to-get with him, but no one had ever _refused_ him before. No one had ever looked at him challengingly the way Lovino was right then, and Francis realized in surprise that he liked it.

                "Good, _very_ good, Lovino," he said huskily, leaning down. He let his hand sneak over the boy's fingers, then his wrist. "It's a lovely _instrument_ , no?" he whispered in the boy's ear, hoping to entice him with the innuendo. "It's my favourite. It's so delicate," he purred, letting his hand fall; letting it rest on Lovino's upper-thigh. The boy tensed, but he didn't move. His eyes slid sideways to Francis, capturing him. Francis took the nonverbal reaction as consent. Sliding his hand gently up Lovino's thigh, he said: "Your technique is good, _chéri_ , but you're using the wrong frets. Let me just adjust your _fingering_."

                It took Francis a moment to comprehend what happened next. It had happened so fast. One moment he had been sitting intimately close to Lovino on the desk, his long fingers reaching for the boy's nether regions; the next, he was lying on his back on the floor, the beautiful lute broken over his blonde head. Lovino stood over him, fuming, an angry sneer distorting his lovely features.

                "If you _ever_ touch me again, I'll break more than your lute, you slimy bastard!" he snarled, then stormed angrily out.

 

**_Exit_ ** **LOVINO.**

 

                Francis was left staring after Lovino in utter bewilderment. As he rubbed his injured head and untangled lute strings from his curly hair, he changed his mind about liking strong-willed boys, no matter what his body had felt. He picked himself up off the floor and straightened Antonio's clothes. He was glad nobody had been witness to his failure to seduce Lovino Vargas—the little shrew! Feeling spiteful, he blamed his interest in Lovino on a lapse of judgement; his brain yielding to physical arousal, nothing more. As he left the study, broken lute in hand, he resolved to stick to wooing sweet, virtuous boys like Feliciano. Boys who blushed coyly when complimented; boys whose gaze was soft and helpless; boys who were flattered and awed by his masculine charms; boys who had never known the intimate touch of another man.

 

**_Exit_ ** **FRANCIS.**

 

* * *

**_Enter_ ** **LUDWIG _and_ FELICIANO.**

 

Feliciano Vargas liked the look of his Latin tutor. Like, he _really_ liked the look of his handsome German Latin tutor. He had never met such a large, strong-looking man before. Ludwig was so very tall and broad, with fair colouring and sculpted features not unlike the statues in Roma's sculpture gallery. His body was as hard as marble, too, his pale skin taut beneath the Italian's touch. He rested his hand on Ludwig's forearm and felt strength and health and hot-blooded masculinity flowing beneath his delicate fingers. Ludwig's fingers were large and blunt; his knuckles were big, made for fighting, not academia. Feliciano liked them. He wondered what it would feel like to be touched by those fingers; what it would feel like to be held and pleasured.

                Quickly he removed his hand, his touch misleadingly shy. Ludwig was looking abashedly at him, sky-blue eyes captivated by the pretty boy, his student. It's exactly what Feliciano wanted. He wanted the German's attention on him. Only him. He wanted to be the centre of his world.

                Coyly he looked away, his golden eyes downcast.

                Unlike his abrupt brother, Feliciano knew how to get exactly what he wanted. The only things it required was modesty and patience. As long as he played the good-boy, dozens of suitors flocked to him with little encouragement. Feliciano knew that he was uncommonly beautiful. All he had to do was bat his long eyelashes; pucker his full lips; _accidentally_ show a bit of sun-kissed skin, and men fell over themselves vying for his coveted attention. He liked the gifts and the flattery they paid him, but—to be honest—none of them had ever caught his interest the way Ludwig had. It was a natural, instinctive reaction. As soon as the German had stepped through the door into his study, Feliciano's heart had soared.

                _I want him_ , he decided, then and there, his greedy young mind already submerged in an erotic fantasy.

                He glanced up at Ludwig through a curtain of copper eyelashes and let a sweet, glossy smile curl his shapely lips. "That was so beautiful," he said dreamily, indicating the poem Ludwig had just recited. The book was lying open upon the German's lap. Feliciano touched the page, applying the gentlest pressure. "Herr van den Berg—?" he asked politely. He saw Ludwig blush at the direct address. "Will you read me another?"

                "Of course," Ludwig said, clearing his throat.

                As he read, Feliciano inched subtly closer to the German until they were sitting thigh-to-thigh on the bench. Then he said: "Oh, I know! Let's read this one together!" Without waiting for an answer, he innocently leant far down, feigning interest in the poetic text. In this position, the sunlight danced across his artful face, highlighting a mirage of gold, bronze, and copper in each silky strand of hair; alighting his catlike golden eyes; warming his soft, smooth skin, making it glow like an angel's; and placing him in close proximity to Ludwig's lower-body. Ludwig's deep voice— _I love his voice_ —stumbled as he read, and Feliciano knew that it had worked. His sweet, innocent act always worked. Just a little longer and the German would be wrapped around his pretty little finger, just like all the others. But this time, it was different. This time, for the first time, Feliciano felt something stirring in return.

                _I want him more than I've ever wanted anyone else_ , he acknowledged in secret. And he grinned.

                One way or another, Feliciano Vargas _always_ got what he wanted.

 

**_Exit_ ** **LUDWIG _and_ FELICIANO.**

 

* * *

**_Enter_ ** **ROMA, ANTONIO _and_ FRANCIS.**

 

What the heck happened to you?" asked Antonio to Francis, who strode into the room in a foul temper. His long curls were tangled and there was a vertical scratch on his cheek.

                "Lovino," he grit through clenched teeth.

                Roma looked sheepish. "Perhaps we should wait for my grandson to, uh, compose himself before introducing you, Señor," he suggested, but Antonio was already shaking his head.

                "No, no. I want to meet him now. _Right now_."

                Roma heaved a sigh. "As you wish. I'll send him in," he said, gesturing for Francis to follow him out.

 

**_Exit_ ** **ROMA _and_ FRANCIS.**

 

                Antonio waited, impatient to meet his fiery soon-to-be betrothed. He smirked back at his rakish reflection in a looking-glass. He cocked Francis' plumed hat upon his dark, wavy hair, and readjusted the drapery of his blood-red travelling cape. Clean-shaven and bright-eyed, even Antonio knew he looked handsomely roguish, like the protagonist of an epic poem.

 

**_Enter_ ** **LOVINO.**

 

                He did not turn around when he saw the door open in the looking-glass reflection, even when he saw the boy enter; a boy so uncommonly beautiful that he looked like he had waltzed in off a canvas. His slight figure was angled crookedly in annoyance, resting his weight upon one slender leg; his arms crossed; his head cocked. A wash of bright sunlight highlighted his silky, chocolate-brown hair and accented his effeminate features. His face was unmarked and looked as smooth as caramel, his skin a sun-kissed gold. And his eyes! Eyes like a wildcat's glared predatorily at the Spaniard in weary dislike. His grimace grew more defined the longer Antonio refused to acknowledge his presence, pretending not to notice the hot-tempered boy. Only when Lovino let out an impatient huff did the Spaniard finally turn around to greet him.

                "Good morning, Lovi!" he smiled in a friendly way. "I hear that's what you're called, _chiquito_."

                Lovino's nose wrinkled in distaste. "If that's what you've heard then you'd better get your ears checked, idiot. My name is Lovino Vargas."

                "Oh, but Lovi is so much cuter, don't you think? I think so," he said, before Lovino could interject. "In fact, I think that's what I'll call you."

                "No, you won't—"

                "I have a proposition for you, Lovi," Antonio continued jovially. "I've heard of your beauty, and now, having seen you with my own eyes—your passion! your fire!—I find myself utterly infatuated," he grinned. "I find myself thinking that I cannot live without you, Lovi. I'm a man possessed by fire, myself, you see. Accept my proposal and let me feel your hot sting, my waspish little fiend. Simply put, I must have you for my spouse."

                Lovino stared at him, dumbfounded. "Are you stupid?" he asked unkindly. "What mad bastard wants a wasp for a spouse?"

                "Ah, but a wasp is harmless once its stinger is removed," Antonio threatened, smiling.

                " _Pft._ If you can find it's stinger," Lovino snarled back.

                Antonio laughed. "Everyone knows a wasp's stinger is in its tail, _chiquito_."

                "Not in the tail, in the tongue," the boy countered, challenging the Spaniard's wit. Proudly, he lifted his head.

                Antonio played-dumb. "Who's tongue?"

                "Yours, if we're talking about tales!" Lovino spat, glaring at the Spaniard in increasing frustration. His whole face was reddening like an overripe tomato. Antonio absolutely loved it. "Stop leering at me, you lying bastard!" the boy yelled, turning on his heels. "I'm leaving!"

                "You're leaving with my tongue in your tail? No, wait!" Antonio laughed at the horrified look on Lovino's red face. "Come back, Lovi."

                The moment Antonio's hand closed around Lovino's wrist, the Italian's free hand swung up and slapped him across the face. "Unhand me, you Spanish pervert!" he shrieked.

                "Oh, stop clucking at me, my little hen," said the Spaniard playfully, ruffling the boy's dark-brown hair. It felt like silk slipping through his callused fingers. "A hen shouldn't cluck at her cock."

                "I don't want your cock!" Lovino snarled, then went redder as the words' double-meaning hit him.

                Antonio threw his head back and laughed uproariously, as if he was enjoying the exchange—which, secretly, he was. Lovino was everything that he had been promised and more.

                "My cock will be yours for the taking once we're married, _chiquito_ ," he said, pulling the stubborn boy closer. Lovino's wrist was so skinny, Antonio's larger hand completely encircled it. The boy was so fragile that he could have squeezed his bones and broken them with his bare hands. But he didn't; he wouldn't. His grasp was debilitating, but not at all harmful. Lovino was sharp-tongued, but not strong. In fact, he was comparatively small. _Adorable_ , Antonio thought happily.

                "I am _not_ marrying you," Lovino said, glaring up at Antonio.

                "Oh yes, you are. It's already been arranged. Roma has already agreed to it."

                Lovino produced an involuntary squeak in disbelief. He still glared, but his eyes reflected a shred of doubt, of unease. He said: "You're making a mistake. You won't like me. You won't want me for your spouse."

                "Nonsense!" Antonio chirped. "I already love you, my little Lovi. I was told that you were violent and sullen, but you're not any of those things. You're proud and you're fiery," he said, leaning down. He let his lips hover inches above Lovino's, letting his eyes rake over the boy's scarlet face. " _I love that_ ," he whispered.

                "Where do you come up with these lines, Spaniard?" Lovino asked, a quiver in his voice.

                Antonio's lips curled, dangerously close to Lovino's. "I make them up as I go," he said. "I'm very clever, no?"

                "Clever enough to keep yourself satisfied, I'm sure," Lovino spat.

                "Yes, I'm sure I'll be _very_ satisfied... in your bed, _chiquito_.

                "I promise," he said, threading his fingers through Lovino's. He stood straighter, taller. "I'm the man for you, Lovino Vargas. I'm the man who was born to tame your wildness. To teach you, to transform you. Together," he said, raising Lovino's hand to his soft lips, "you and I are destined for greatness. Let me fuel your fire, Lovino." Gently, he kissed Lovino's knuckles, then cordially let go and stepped back. "Say you'll marry me. Say you'll become the spouse of Antonio Fernández Carriedo."

                Lovino stared at him, unblinking, a look of incredulity on his lovely face. "I-I-I—" Words failed him. When he realized his hand was still outstretched, he snatched it quickly to his chest. " _How dare you_ ," he said quietly, slowly. It was an accusation steeped in simmering fury. "How dare you presume—"

 

**_Enter_ ** **ROMA, GILBERT _and_ LARS.**

 

                "Ah, Señor!" Roma interrupted. "How are you getting along with my Lovino?"

                "Beautifully, Signore!" said Antonio brightly.

                "I am glad to hear it," Roma smiled. Gilbert and Lars looked on approvingly. "And you, my Lovino? How are you?"

                " _Your_ Lovino?" he snarled. The arrival of company seemed to reignite his aggression. "I am not _your_ Lovino! I am not _his_ Lovino!" He jerked his head at Antonio. "I am nobody's Lovino but mine! And the fact that you would sell me to this—this—this madman," he blurted, "is proof that you don't care about me at all! You just want to get rid of me, don't you? You're heartless, Grandpapa! Heartless! I'll hang before I wed this bastard!"

                "Uh, Señor?" asked Roma skeptically, eyeing Antonio.

                Antonio waved in dismissal. "Nonsense, a mere game we were playing," he said, stalking to Lovino's side. He wrapped an uninvited—unwelcome—arm around Lovino's slender shoulders. "I assure you, gentleman, we are very much in love. Aren't we, Lovi?"

                Lovino bristled like a hedgehog.

                "Awe, _Lovi_ ," Gilbert mocked. "Isn't that cute? Well, you've got my confidence, Spaniard."

                Antonio inclined his head in thanks.

                "This is very good news!" Roma rejoiced. "Lovino, Antonio—you'll be married on Sunday! It'll be a wonderful celebration! Oh! I'm so happy for both of you!"

                "Yes, yes, and we'll both be witnesses," Gilbert grinned, elbowing Lars in the ribs.

                "Oh, yes, of course we will," said Lars.

                "Yes, Sunday," Antonio agreed. "If you'll excuse me, gentleman, I'm off to Venice to make preparations. Lovi, my love," he said, pecking Lovino's cheek, "until then my heart will ache for you! Farewell!"

 

**_Exit_ ** **ANTONIO.**

 

                Lovino shook his dark head, his bottom lip trembling, his eyes flooded with tears. He glared helplessly at his undisturbed audience, feeling lost and insignificant. The men weren't even looking at him, not even Roma.

                " _I hate all of you_ ," he whispered, and then turned on his heel in defeat.

 

**_Exit_ ** **LOVINO.**

 

                "I fear I've made a risky investment," Roma admitted when the betrothed couple had both left. Suddenly, he looked tired.

                "Yes, but at least now you'll make a profit off Lovino," Lars suggested helpfully.

                Roma looked at him, aghast. "The only profit I want is a happy, peaceful marriage for both of my grandsons."

                "Oh, uh, right... of course." Lars shot a guilty look at Gilbert.

                "Uh, Signore Vargas, about Feliciano..." Gilbert cut in, changing the subject. "Now that Lovino is engaged to be married, I assume that you'll entertain suitors for Feliciano as promised. And, since I'm the first to come calling, I hope you'll give my proposal first priority?" His tone lifted at the end, turning the statement into a hopeful question. He smiled politely at Roma, trying to look equal parts eager and innocent (though, his blood-red eyes diminished the effect).

                "Oh, yes," Roma sighed, recalling his promise. "Yes, Herr Beilschmidt, I will consider your proposal. You are relatively young." (Gilbert scowled. _Relatively_? _I'm the same age as Francis and Antonio_! _Just who do you think you are_ , _Old Man_?) "And your family is wealthy and has a good reputation. Your father is lucky to have sons whom he can be proud of," he complimented the Germans absently. His focus—Gilbert noticed—was elsewhere, thinking of other things. Gilbert disliked being thought of as insignificant, but he smiled and inclined his head in respect. If sucking up to Roma Vargas is what Gilbert had to do to win Feliciano, then he would do it.

                "I'm at your service, Signore Vargas," he said. Then he took his leave.

 

**_Exit_ ** **GILBERT.**

 

                Lars waited for his headstrong cousin's footsteps to fade before he moved in on Roma. "Signore Vargas?" he inquired.

                He waited for the Italian to look at him. He hated repeating himself. Roma frowned in curiosity, as if he had just noticed the Dutchman's presence. He looked tired, but his facial muscles relaxed indulgently. He waved a hand, bidding Lars speak. Lars did. He stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back, head tilted in a nonthreatening way—even if it was a tad condescending—and smiled kindly at the Italian patriarch.

                "I was wondering, Signore—hoping, really, that I may express my interest in Feliciano, as well. With respect, I would like to present myself as a candidate for the boy's hand."

                "Oh, you as well?" Roma studied him. "Yes, I suppose so. It's Ludwig Beilschmidt, isn't it?"

                Lars hid a scheming grin. "Yes, Signore, it is."

 

**_Exit_ ** **ROMA _and_ LARS.**


	4. Act III Scene I

**PADUA**

**_at Roma's villa_ ** **, _several days later._**

**_Enter_ ** **FELICIANO, LUDWIG ( _as Lars_ ) _and_ FRANCIS ( _as Francois_ ).**

 

Ludwig and Francis consulted the ticking clock on the mantle, then looked at each other in challenge.

                "If you would be so kind as to allow me to tutor Feliciano first," said Francis, in a sharp tone of forced friendliness, "then you can finish your Latin lecture afterward, Lars. Music does soothe the soul, after all." He plucked a lute chord in example. "Let me _soothe_ Feliciano, won't you?"

                "No," said Ludwig starkly. "It'll be more beneficial for him to finish my Latin lecture first, before indulging in your silly music lesson, Francois."

                "Surely you're roasting me," said Francis, forcing a stiff smile. "Music is the language of love and beauty, and the lute is the most beautiful of all instruments. Being so young and very beautiful himself"—he winked charmingly at Feliciano, who was waiting nearby—"I think it's rather befitting. All he needs is a little instruction, _my_ instruction. I'm very eager to teach him how to handle _my instrument_ ," he smiled wickedly.

                "Like you taught Lovino?" Ludwig countered icily.

                Francis' smile fell. "Just let me go first, Lars."

                "No, Francois."

                "Excuse me, gentleman?" said Feliciano sweetly. "It being _my_ lesson, shouldn't I decide which subject I want to study first?" He bat his long, coppery eyelashes prettily. "Please don't argue," he continued when he had acquired both men's full attention. "Francois, why don't you tune your instrument while I finish my Latin lecture? By the time you're... _tuned_ , I'll be done."

                "And I'll just be getting started, _chéri_ ," Francis purred in approval. "Very well. Enjoy your lesson, my dear."

 

**_Exit_ ** **FRANCIS.**

 

                "Shall we continue where we left off yesterday, _Ludwig_?" said Feliciano slyly.

                Ludwig wasted no time replying. He swept Feliciano into his arms and kissed him hungrily, revelling in the feel of soft, supple lips. He tasted sweet, like honeysuckle. A floral fragrance tumbled over him as he threaded a hand through the boy's silky auburn hair. Feliciano wrapped his arms wantonly around Ludwig's neck, pressing himself as close as he could, chest-to-chest, legs suspended off the floor. His tongue was slick and hot and tangoed with Ludwig's tongue in a heated dance. " _Mm_ , _Ludwig_..." the boy moaned softly, his eyes half-lidded in contented bliss.

                Ludwig had taken a risk in revealing his true identity to Feliciano and telling him of his and Lars' deception, but he was glad of it. For one thing, he hated dishonesty, and he had felt too guilty lying to such a sweet, innocent boy. For another, Feliciano had responded to Ludwig's truth by confessing his feelings for the German, which shocked him tremendously. _I guess my flirting worked after all_ , he thought proudly. (Flirting had never been his talent.) The boy's confession had been so shy and flustered—his eyes downcast; gnawing gently on his bottom lip; hands clasped—the German hadn't been able to resist kissing him. Something animal inside him had awakened and his brain possessively thought: _Mine. Feliciano is mine_. He had cupped Feliciano's face and guided him into an experimental kiss; gentle at first, but rougher with the boy's encouragement. He had wanted to mark Feliciano, and Feliciano had begged for him to do so. It was hot and heady and urgent. Both of them had thrown caution to the wind and that particular lesson had ended with Feliciano perched on Ludwig's lap, his arms and legs wrapped around the eager German; both of them red-faced and panting; both of them uncomfortably aroused.

                It was where they picked-up from, now.

                Laying the boy down on a cushioned bench seat, Ludwig crawled over him, breaking a thin string of lingering saliva when their tongues parted. Feliciano was flushed and bright-eyed, his auburn locks tousled in a way that made Ludwig's heart pound. He lay sprawled on his back beneath Ludwig's body, his delicate hands resting on the German's broad shoulders. He looked like an angel: a ravished angel.

                " _Ludwig_ ," he whispered, as if Ludwig's name was a secret.

                Ludwig smiled lovingly. " _Feliciano_ —"

                "Master Feliciano?" called a servant suddenly. His voice summoned the boy from the other side of the study door. "Signore Vargas requests your presence at once," he relayed. "Tomorrow is your brother's wedding and Signore Vargas wants you to help him prepare."

                Feliciano sighed. "I have to go," he said regrettably to Ludwig. "If I don't, he'll send an escort for me."

                "I don't want to let you go," Ludwig said honestly. He stroked Feliciano's soft cheek gently in self-indulgence.

                "I don't want you to let me go either," Feliciano confessed. Coyly, he leant up and pressed a sweet, chaste kiss to Ludwig's lips. "Later," he whispered. "I'll be waiting for you later, my love."

 

**_Exit_ ** **FELICIANO _and_ LUDWIG.**


	5. Act III Scene II

**PADUA**

**_the church._ **

****

**_Enter_ ** **ROMA, LOVINO, FELICIANO, GILBERT, LUDWIG ( _as Lars_ ), LARS ( _as Ludwig_ ), _and_ FRANCIS.**

 

Lovino stood between his grandfather and brother at the gilded alter, feeling as though he might at any moment get violently sick. It was a wet day. Rain beat at the tall stain-glass windows, distorting the reflection of daylight inside the stiff church, perfumed with the fragrant scent of summer flowers, which barely covered the lingering dryness of incense. It was a small party of gentleman in attendance for Lovino Vargas' wedding, each person there to witness that the marriage, indeed, be performed more so than for any support or affection for the boy, himself. Lovino felt like a fool dressed in his red and gold finery, the long sleeves and sweeping cascades of vibrant fabric creating a striking picture. He saw his reflection in a silver offering plate and barely recognized himself. He had been paid many polite compliments since arriving, all of which he had ignored or scoffed at. He didn't need anyone else to tell him he was beautiful. He _knew_ he was beautiful. But right now he didn't even look like himself. He looked pale and scared, and he hated it. He didn't look like Lovino Vargas, plain and simple.

                _I don't feel like myself either_ , he thought uncomfortably. Today was his wedding day, a cheerful day—or, it should have been. But it wasn't for two glaring reasons:

                Firstly, Lovino Vargas did not want to marry Antonio Fernández Carriedo.

                And secondly, Antonio Fernández Carriedo had not bothered to show up.

                Lovino felt his bottom lip quiver dangerously when he heard his grandfather mutter: "Where in hell is he? Is he _trying_ to humiliate us?"

                _Am I being stood-up_? Lovino wondered. As much as he detested Antonio and didn't want to marry him, the possibility of the Spaniard rejecting him—cruelly and without pretense—made Lovino feel deeply hurt. To his horror, he felt tears welling in the crescents of his big gold-flecked eyes. _This whole thing is just a joke to him_ , _isn't it_? _And we were fools enough to fall for it._ _I bet he's having a laugh about it right now_ , _the bastard_. _And everyone is looking at me with—not sympathy_ ; _oh no_ , _not for the shrew_ — _amusement. They're_ all _laughing at me_ , _saying_ : " _Oh look_ , _there's little Lovino Vargas_ , _the boy whom even the lunatic Spaniard wasn't mad enough to wed_! _How pathetic he is_! _Ha_! _Ha_! _Ha_!

                Lovino clenched fistfuls of his long sleeves as a tear escaped and rolled down his cheek. He hated how weak he felt.

                "Lovino?" whispered Feliciano. He looked shocked, and a little lost. He had never seen his mean-tempered brother look so helpless before. In an attempted soothing gesture, he took Lovino's hand and sandwiched it between both of his. "Don't be sad, brother. I'm sure that Antonio will be here soon—"

                Lovino wrenched his hand away, trying to hide his face. "I wish I'd never laid eyes on that cocky bastard!" he cried, and fled the chapel.

                Feliciano followed him in concern.

 

**_Exit_ ** **LOVINO _and_ FELICIANO.**

 

                "What's his problem?" Gilbert asked, red gaze flicking to the brothers' departure, unconcerned. Casually, he stretched his arms overhead. "The Spaniard's just a bit late, it's nothing to cry about," he said.

                "I guess Lovino Vargas just can't help making a scene," Francis added scornfully.

                Roma cast them both a withering look; Francis bowed his head in apology, and Gilbert's posture stiffened in defense. "Lovino Vargas is _my_ grandson, _my_ heir," said the patron reproachfully. "Hot-tempered shrew or not, he has been humiliated by that—that—that—" Words seemed to evade the Italian as he paced back-and-forth before the alter, as if it was he and not Lovino awaiting his groom. "Such blatant disrespect," he muttered in frustration. "Perhaps I am making a mistake allowing him to wed my Lovino."

                "No, no!" exploded his guests in an outcry of panic. Roma stopped and looked at the four young gentlemen.

                "You want Lovino to get married, don't you?" said Gilbert.

                "He needs a husband," Ludwig added. "You said so yourself."

                "Someone who can tame him—I mean, take care of him," Lars amended.

                "And Antonio really is a gentleman," Francis lied. "In fact, whatever is keeping him _must_ be unavoidable. I'm sure that it has absolutely nothing to do... with... you..."

 

**_Enter_ ** **ANTONIO.**

 

                Francis' voice faded as the chapel doors swung open, permitting Antonio. Antonio, who was dressed like a patchwork jester in an outlandish costume of loud, uncomplimentary colours; dark-brown hair a mess of windswept locks; sweaty and red-cheeked and wild-eyed as if he had just ran a marathon. Francis took one look at his friend and a little croak of unease escaped him. The others, too, all stared at the smiling Spaniard, aghast, like nobility forced to entertain a clown on equal terms.

                "Oh! Signore Vargas, excellent!" shouted Antonio, jogging up the aisle. No apology, no remorse; just a grin as big as a child's. He stopped in front of Roma and buckled over, his hands braced on his knees to catch his breath. As he did, he surveyed the small crowd and vocally noted that Lovino was not present. "Oh, I'm so glad that he's not here yet. I'd have hated to be late," he lied, smile too big to dispute. "I simply couldn't decide what to wear, you see, and by the time I realized how late it was—well, I hurried right over."

                Roma gaped at the Spaniard. "I—I say, I—How could you—Why are you— _What in hell are you wearing_?" he demanded.

                "Oh, this?" Briefly, Antonio tugged at his tunic. "I told you, sir. I couldn't decide on what to wear—I wanted to look my best, you know—so I simply decided to wear everything I own. Clever, no?

                "But enough about me!" he continued before anyone could speak. "Where is Lovino? Where is my beautiful betrothed, anyway? And how are you, sir? My soon-to-be grandfather-in-law!" he guffawed cheerfully. Roma looked as if he might burst a blood-vessel at the suggestion of him being related to such a wild creature, by marriage or not. Antonio paused, as if only then noticing the Italian's scowl. He cocked his dark head and feigned innocence when he said: "You seem displeased, Signore Roma? Though I can't imagine why! Weddings are an occasion for happiness, not frowns! Am I right?"

                Lars couldn't hold back his laughter anymore. He snorted, then covered his mouth with a hand and turned away to compose himself.

                Ludwig stared open-mouthed at the Spaniard's gall, thinking only that if he or Gilbert had made such a loud, dramatic, flamboyant entrance, their cold, calculating father would have disowned them on the spot. By comparison, Roma's sizzling rage seemed the better response. At least it was expected.

                Carefully, Francis said: "Uh, yes. Weddings are very cheerful, indeed, but Toni... you are _very_ late. And your clothes are, uh... not your typical look," he said delicately, wondering, perhaps, if his friend really had gone completely mad. "Surely you don't mean to marry Lovino in... in _that_?"

                Antonio merely shrugged. "Lovino is marrying me, not my clothes," he said simply. "Now, where is my sweet Lovi? I won't be pleased if you're keeping him from me," he mock-warned, cocking his index-finger back-and-forth. "I was promised the boy's hand, wasn't I? Oh! How I long to kiss those tender lips! Ah, forget it!" he declared in a bout of energy. "I'll fetch him myself!"

                Then he was gone, racing off into the church's intestines, shouting Lovino's name. Francis cast an apologetic glance over-the-shoulder and quickly followed him.

 

**_Exit_ ** **ANTONIO _and_ FRANCIS.**

               

                "Ludwig," said Lars, pulling his flabbergasted cousin aside. "Listen, I've been talking to Roma, negotiating a marriage contract for you and Feliciano," he reported, keeping his voice lowered for privacy. (Not that anyone was paying them any mind after Antonio's show.) "It's going well. He seems rather keen for the match, but I think we have a problem. He keeps insisting on having your father's approval."

                Ludwig sighed. He had been afraid of that. The truth was, he didn't think that his big, stoic, narrow-minded father _would_ approve of his marrying a dead libertine Italian's second-son. "Vater is in Berlin. It would take weeks to receive correspondence by messenger," he said, avoiding the greater issue. "And I want to wed Feliciano as soon as possible. I don't want to risk losing him."

                "Don't worry, we'll think of something," said Lars supportively. He gave Ludwig's shoulder a friendly punch. "We'll outwit them all, you'll see."

                "It would be so much easier if Feliciano and I could just elope. I don't think he would mind; weddings are so unnecessary. But Gilbert and Francis are always watching us," said Ludwig, annoyed.

                "Yes, but—Oh," Lars stopped. "Speak of the devil," he warned, nodding behind Ludwig.

                The conversation died as Gilbert approached. "Can you believe the gall of that man?" he said appreciatively. "Antonio what's-his-name is a raving madman with no regard for propriety at all, and, you know, I'm really starting to like him. It's an odd tactic, though, isn't it?"

                "What is?" Ludwig asked.

                "The Spaniard's plan for taming Lovino," Gilbert replied. "At least, I _hope_ that's what he's doing. It's not the tactic I would have used, but—"

                Lars snorted. "If it were up to you to tame Lovino Vargas, there would be nothing left of the boy to wed. You aren't exactly known for your kind, patient, considerate nature, Gil."

                Gilbert shrugged, but he didn't deny it. "Be thankful it's not me then," he mumbled. "I told you already, I like my boys quiet and obedient."

 

**_Enter_ ** **ANTONIO, LOVINO, FRANCIS _and_ FELICIANO.**

 

                Just then, the chapel doors flew open so forcefully they crashed against the stonewalls and Antonio charged through with Lovino thrown over his shoulder. Francis and Feliciano scurried in after them, both looking mortified by the whole ordeal. Lovino was shrieking: " _Put me down_! _This is not dignified_ , _put me down_ , _you rat-bastard_!" but the wily Spaniard was ignoring him outright and smiling as if playing a jolly-good game. At the altar, Antonio dumped the boy into a heap on the floor, then faced the bewildered priest.

                "Okay, we're both here. Marry us," he ordered in a tone that dared the priest to refuse.

                "Oh, uh... yes," he said, glancing skeptically at Roma. "Here in the sight of God—"

                "Just skip to the end," Antonio interrupted with an exasperated sigh. "We're already behind schedule, and I refuse to wait any longer than I have to. Every minute wasted here is a minute I could be ravishing my Lovi in bed."

                Lovino's face was bright red before Antonio had even closed his indecent mouth.

                "Get on with it!" the Spaniard snapped.

                The priest stuttered as he skipped ahead to the marriage vows. When asked if Antonio would take Lovino, he yelled: "Hell yes!" so loudly it made the priest flinch and drop his prayer book. When asked if Lovino would take the Spaniard, the boy struggled to produce words. "I-I-I—" Lovino's voice got stuck in his throat, too shocked by the scene of utter incivility and embarrassment.

                _I can't believe this is the man I'm being forced to marry_! _What a perfect heathen_!

                "I-I-I— _I do_ ," he gasped when Antonio thumped him helpfully on the back.

                "There, you see?" said the satisfied Spaniard. "We're married. We're in love. We burn with passion for each other. A toast!" he cried joyfully. Before anyone could stop him, he had grabbed a large bejeweled goblet and stuck it into a basin of sacred communal wine. The priest gasped at the blasphemy. "To me!" Antonio yelled and chugged the whole thing. Even Gilbert looked appalled. Then Antonio slung an arm around Lovino's neck and pulled the shocked boy into a shameless kiss, so deep and desperate that Lovino had no defense. When it (finally) ended, their lips parted with a loud, wet smack that echoed in the chapel. Lovino's knees nearly buckled, his face a mask of dazed confusion, but Antonio swept the boy—his legally-wedded spouse—into the cradle of his arms and announced his departure:

                "Gentlemen, friends," he said, smiling brightly at his stunned audience, "thank-you for bothering to come. I know there's been a celebratory feast prepared, so stay! Enjoy yourselves! Eat and drink to my health! But I'm afraid I must go now. Urgent business to attend to—in bed, that is." He winked. "I'm sweeping my sweet Lovi off to Venice for our honeymoon, of course!"

                " _Venice_ —!" Lovino choked-out. "No, I'm not going to Venice!" He pushed at Antonio's face, trying to distance it from his own.

                "Oh, yes— _we_ are," said Antonio slyly. He began walking to the doors.

                "If you really love me, then we'll stay here!" Lovino said, wriggling in panic.

                "Fetch me my horse!" Antonio called, pretending he hadn't heard his spouse's request. "We leave at once!"

                Lovino nearly cried.

                " _Please_ , _Antonio_ , _no_..." he begged, and for the briefest moment, Antonio paused. He met the boy's helpless gaze, emerald-green eyes softening as his grasp tightened gently in reassurance, as if he was silently saying to Lovino: _It's okay_ , _it's going to be okay_ , but it was gone too soon.

                "Oh, Lovi!" he crooned. "You'll fall in love with Venice just as you've fallen in love with me! _Adios_ , friends!"

                Then they were gone, out the church doors, into the rain, and up onto Antonio's waiting steed. Lovino barely had time to right himself as Antonio leapt gracefully into the saddle behind him. He grabbed the Spaniard's shoulders to haul himself up and peer at the faces gathered in the doorway, rapidly receding as the horse galloped off. The rain soaked his silken finery and he shivered, chocolate-brown hair plastered to his face as rain and wind swept over him. _Is this my punishment_? he thought bleakly. _Is this what I get for being myself_ _instead of what everyone else wants me to be_? He could feel hot, salty tears welling in his eyes. He closed them, hands clenching fistfuls of the Spaniard's—his _husband_ 's—outlandish layers of clothes. _I'm not sorry_! He clenched his teeth stubbornly, tears squeezing past his closed eyes. _I'm not_! _I'm not_! _I'm not_!

                Above him, Antonio howled in victory.

 

**_Exit_ ** **ANTONIO _and_ LOVINO.          **

 

                "Well," said Gilbert, breaking the tense silence inside the chapel, "it looks like mad Lovino married someone just as mad as he is. Does anyone else think that they're kind of perfect for each other?"

                "Uh, yes..." said Roma hesitantly, refusing to admit that he had made a mistake letting Antonio wed Lovino. "I mean, I'm sure that they will be... uh... Oh, bother. I suppose it doesn't matter. There's nothing to be done about it now, is there? It's done," he said, breathing a distinct sigh of relief. "I'm sure they will be very happy together, so let's all take my, uh... grandson-in-law's advice and go to the feast!" he said, clapping his hands together in a semblance of forced frivolity. "There's no sense letting a perfectly fine reception go to waste, is there? This way, gentlemen! Let's join the rest of the guests!"

                One-by-one, the men filed out of the church, tugging up coat-collars and cloaks to protect themselves from the rain. Ludwig chivalrously sacrificed his cloak for Feliciano, who smiled warmly, though he took his grandfather's arm as he climbed into a carriage. The wedding reception was being held at the Vargas' villa, a short uphill ride from the towering church. The gentlemen followed Roma's carriage on horseback, like a handsome young entourage. The courtyard was already teeming with carriages of varying expense, like a gypsy column at a caravanserai. Ludwig didn't dismount fast enough to help Feliciano out of the carriage, and was forced to watch Gilbert lend the boy a polite hand instead. They hurried into the villa and let the valets attend their outerwear as they prepared to enter the feast hall.

                "May I escort you, Feliciano?" asked Gilbert, bowing his silver-white head.

                "No, no—please, allow _me_ ," said Francis, trying to shove Gilbert aside.

                "I think," Lars cut in, speaking to Roma, "it would be very inappropriate for a suitor to escort your grandson, sir. It _would_ show a preference, wouldn't it? However, it's not inappropriate at all for a boy's tutor to escort him."

                "You're quite right, Ludwig," said Roma to Lars. "Lars," he said to Ludwig, "would you be so kind as to escort my darling Feliciano tonight?"

                Ludwig tried not to grin, but his cheeks flushed happily. "I would be honoured, sir."

 

**_Exit_ ** **ROMA, FELICIANO, GILBERT, LUDWIG, LARS _and_ FRANCIS.**

 

* * *

**_at Roma's villa._ **

****

**_Enter_ ** **FRANCIS, GILBERT, LUDWIG _and_ FELICIANO.**

 

Francis stood in a crescent of onlookers at the edge of the dance-floor, trying to maintain an expression void of spite as he watched Ludwig lead Feliciano in a frivolous step. The German was not a good dancer. If fact, he was as stiff as a statue. It looked—to Francis' practised eye—like he was holding onto Feliciano for dear life, which, of course, peeved the jealous Frenchman. He disliked how low Ludwig's big, blunt hands were resting on the boy's hips, pretending that he, himself, wouldn't have done the same if their positions had been switched. _How inelegant_ , he scoffed, clenching his goblet with dangerous force. A few feet away, Gilbert was feigning interest in a conversation, but his red eyes were fixed on his brother, as well. Ludwig had monopolized all of Feliciano's attention since the feast began. Francis hadn't been able to ask him for a single dance!

                _The nerve of that ghastly Lars van den Berg_! he fumed. _Everyone knows the French are the best dance instructors_!

                Francis left the crowd and retreated to the wine-fountain, intending to refill his goblet.

                CRASH!

 

**_Enter_ ** **MATTHEW.**

 

                A pyramid of goblets crashed loudly to the floor in a tumble of polished brass, splashes of red wine flying in every direction. Several guests gasped and stepped aside to avoid the mess; a lady shrieked. In the confusion, Francis saw a child take refuge beneath the tablecloth, afraid of retribution.

                "What a mess!" one of the guests shouted angrily. "Just wait until I get my hands on you, you dirty little—"

                "I'm afraid that was my fault," said Francis, stepping swiftly in front of the covered table. "Perhaps I've had a bit too much to drink," he laughed, yet he pierced the crowd with a hard stare, daring the accuser to berate him.

                "Oh, well... It's no bother," said the guest, cowed by Francis' high-status. "An accident, sir, I'm sure."

                "Indeed," said Francis, and then dismissed him with a sharp glare.

                "It's alright," he said when the crowd had dispersed. Gracefully, he crouched down and lifted the tablecloth's hem, revealing a young child whose large, violet eyes were glassy with frightened tears. "Oh, you poor thing," he said, recognizing the five-year-old at once as Arthur Kirkland's son. The family was unforgettably beautiful. Even flushed and crying, the child looked like a lost cherub. Francis reached out slowly, as if approaching a small bird. "It's alright, don't be afraid," he said softly. "It was an accident, _chéri_. No one is going to be angry. No one is going to yell or strike you, I promise. It was just an accident," he repeated, laying his hand gently upon the child's kitten-soft curls. "Won't you come out from under the table?" he asked, smiling kindly.

                "I know you," the child whispered. His voice was so soft, Francis strained to hear it. "You rescued Al."

                "Yes, that's right. And I know you," Francis exaggerated. "Your father is Arthur Kirkland, isn't he?" The child nodded. "What's your name, _chéri_?"

                "Matthew," he said shyly to the floor.

                "Mathieu is a very beautiful name," Francis complimented, petting the child's head in a soothing way. "Why don't you come out?" he repeated.

                "I-I—I lost Daddy," he said fearfully, bottom lip quivering. "I don't know where he is."

                Francis considered the size of the feast hall and the number of rowdy reception guests, and he pitied the lost little child. "Come out and I'll help you look for him," he said, removing his hand from Matthew's head and holding it out in front of him. When Matthew didn't move, he added: "You're not going to find him under this table, you know."

                Matthew blushed and took Francis' hand, wiping his cheeks as the Frenchman pulled him out. As soon as he left the relative safety of the table, his tiny fingers dug fretfully into Francis' hand. His long-lashed violet eyes scanned the boisterous crowd for his father, glancing anxiously from face-to-face, but he began to cry when he didn't spot him.

                "Oh, no, no. It's alright, _chéri_ ," said Francis. Quickly, he scooped the child into his arms and stood, hoping to prevent a scene. However, Matthew didn't wail or scream; in fact, he didn't make a peep. Glassy tears rolled down his flushed cheeks, but the child, himself, was silent; red lips pursed to keep quiet. Francis held him against his chest and rubbed his back. "Okay, let's go into the garden," he suggested, already walking toward the opened doors. If anyone cast him a curious look, Francis didn't even notice. He took Matthew into the garden and found a quiet spot beneath a canopy, where the shy child would not feel overwhelmed or over-stimulated.

 

**_Exit_ ** **LUDWIG, FELICIANO _and_ GILBERT.**

 

                "There, now. There's no need for tears, _chéri_ ," Francis said, sitting on a stone bench. "In fact, I'm sure your father is looking for you right now. I'm sure he's beside himself with worry."

                "No," said Matthew sadly. After a minute, he looked up. "He's looking for Al. That's how I got lost. Al ran off. Daddy tells him not to, but he doesn't listen. Al ran off and Daddy went to find him. He told me to wait for him, but he was gone so long. I waited, but I think he—he—he forgot about me," he silently cried. "I was supposed to stay where he left me, but—but—but all those people—I got scared—"

                " _Hush-hush_ ," Francis crooned. He took a handkerchief and wiped the child's face. "Your father didn't forget about you," he said confidently (though Arthur might have, for all he knew). "He's probably been searching for you, too, but can't find you because you keep moving. Let's just wait here for him to find you, okay? It's nice and quiet out here; nothing to be frightened of. I'll wait here with you," he added impulsively, because the child look so scared. "Is that okay, Mathieu?"

                Matthew nodded.

                "Very good," Francis praised. "I'm sure he'll be along any minute, and then won't you feel silly for worrying?"

                Matthew nodded again, and this time a shy, grateful smile curled his lips.

                Admittedly, they waited longer than Francis anticipated. A lot longer. Matthew sat on the bench beside him, hands folded, wide-eyed as he stared at the villa doors, waiting for his father to materialize. Francis tried to keep him focused on other things, but Matthew was a quiet child who only spoke when spoken to; who only replied with short answers; and who only smiled politely when Francis made a joke. _He's completely preoccupied_ , he thought. It was justified, but exhausting trying to entertain him. Still, Matthew was a sweet child. He obeyed Francis and didn't cry or move from his spot on the bench. _Like a puppy awaiting it's master's return_. "Do you like puzzles, Mathieu? Do you know the one about the stars?" he asked, pointing to the diamond-spotted sky. He told the child a few stories about the constellations, and taught him a few puzzles and rhymes, but it was getting late and Matthew was getting tired. He yawned deeply, then quickly covered his mouth as if hearing his father's voice scold him for yawning in public. _Any time now_ , _Englishman_ , Francis thought, wondering if he ought to leave Matthew and go in search of Arthur, himself. But he was hesitant to leave the child alone. He looked so fragile; his anxiety was palpable. Eventually, Francis curled an arm around Matthew and drew the child to his side, letting him rest his pale-blonde head on his lap. He was asleep almost instantly. Francis covered him with his overcoat and gently rubbed his small shoulder absently in reassurance, as if to say: _Don't worry_ , _I'm here_ , _you're safe._ He watched over his charge as he waited, feeling peaceful. For a while, he forgot about the party, his jealousy, and his undying love for Feliciano, and simply let himself relax. It was nice. It had been a long time since he had star-gazed.

                Finally, at half-past midnight, a frantic Arthur Kirkland appeared.

 

**_Enter_ ** **ARTHUR _and_ ALFRED.**

 

                "Oh, Matthew, _thank God_ ," he sighed in relief as he hurried over. Alfred was resting against his chest like a ragdoll, fast-asleep. "Ah, we meet again, sir," he said, recognizing Francis at once. His Lincoln-green eyes flicked from his son to the Frenchman. "It seems that I'm once again obliged to offer you my thanks."

                "No need, it was my pleasure," Francis replied honestly. "It's Kirkland, isn't it? Arthur Kirkland?"

                "Yes, and who are you?"

                "Francis Bonnefoi," he said, extending his hand cordially. They shook shortly. "It's awfully late, Mr. Kirkland. Too late for children to be out, I think."

                Arthur stiffened. "I don't mean to be rude, but if you're about to lecture me on how to raise my children, you can save your breath, Monsieur Bonnefoi, because I've heard it all before."

                "My apologies," Francis eased smoothly, "I meant no offense. I'm merely curious as to why you don't employ a nursemaid?"

                "Because I prefer to parent my own children," he replied defensively. "No doubt you think that's improper."

                "On the contrary," said Francis, standing; lifting sleeping Matthew, "I admire your tenacity."

                Arthur's green eyes studied him skeptically, searching for mockery. "Do you have children?" he asked.

                "No, I don't," he said. "But if I did, I admit, I would want to spend as much time as possible with them, too—especially children as precious as yours," he added in flattery.

                Arthur tried to look modest, but he glowed with the complimentary words. "They're not always sweet, believe me," he said in mock-disapproval, "but thank-you. Their father was hardly as enthusiastic. He's dead," he added flatly.

                "I'm sorry," said Francis insincerely.

                "Thank-you," Arthur repeated, though everything about him seemed to say: _Don't be_ , _I'm not_.

                As Francis passed Matthew to Arthur, helping to balance both children in the Englishman's skinny arms, he took the liberty of studying Arthur's hooded face. Despite his dignified manner and the gentle way in which he cared for the twins, Francis saw the same feral spark in him as he had seen in Lovino that day in the study. It was a curious thing, since Arthur and Lovino didn't appear to have anything else in common, but Francis was certain of it. _Gilbert is right_ , he realized, staring openly into Arthur's green eyes (Arthur was focused on the children). _I'd be a fool to cross this man_. For a sudden, fleeting moment he was flooded with desire, but he knew better than to get too close to such animalistic ferocity, no matter how sexy; he knew how dangerous it was. The last time he had succumbed to it, he had ended up with a lute broken over his head. Arthur wasn't holding a weapon, but he looked just as capable of inflicting damage. In fact, there was something in his eyes that seemed even more capable than Lovino, since Arthur had the benefit of age—of experience. Holding those children close to his chest, protective, possessive, Francis would have bet on Arthur against a pack of hungry wolves. So, favouring self-preservation, the Frenchman ignored the yearning in his lower-body and focused on the children instead.

                "Sweet dreams, _petits chéris_ ," he said kindly, patting Matthew's kitten-soft head in farewell. He was slumped over Arthur's right shoulder; Alfred, over his left. The Englishman was not definably tall, nor strong-looking. In fact, he was skinny; yet he didn't buckle under the collective weight of two five-year-olds. He balanced them as if he had been doing it forever, or for five years at least. Francis felt tender as he looked at the broken (beautiful) little family. He stepped back to a respectable distance, inclined his head, and—hoping it wouldn't be their last encounter—he said:

                " _Bonne nuit_ , Arthur Kirkland."

                "Goodnight, Francis Bonnefoi."

                Then they left in opposite directions.

 

**_Exit_ ** **FRANCIS, ARTHUR, ALFRED _and_ MATTHEW.**


	6. Act IV Scene I

**VENICE**

**_a dilapidated villa._ **

 

**_Enter_ ** **ANTONIO _and_ LOVINO.**

 

 _This_ is your house?" croaked Lovino in disbelief.

                They had arrived late under the cover of foggy darkness to a ghostly corner of the city, and the spoiled little aristocrat now stood—soaking, shivering, covered in mud—staring up at a villa that looked even more tired than he did. Its crooked roofs were sagging, many clay tiles missing; it's gloomy windows were opaque; it's walls were a crumbling, broken mess of stone veneer; and it's front door hung ajar, like the agonized scream of a specter. Lovino instinctively shrank back, secretly afraid of spooks, but Antonio propelled him merrily forward, as if they were entering a charming honeymoon home.

                "It's not my house, I'm renting it," he said. "I chose it especially for you, _chiquito_."

                Lovino grabbed the doorframe with both hands, fighting as Antonio tried to push him inside. "I don't want to go inside!" he said, frightened. "I don't like—"

                "What?" Antonio leant down, nearly nose-to-nose with Lovino. His smile was sadistic. "What don't you like, my love? You're not _afraid_ , are you? I think this is a beautiful house, don't you?"

                Lovino swallowed. "Y-yes," he managed in a wobbly voice. Reluctantly, he released the doorframe, his fingers stiff.

                "I'm glad," Antonio's face relaxed into a happy grin. "Shall we, then?"

                Lovino took a step, but just before his foot landed, Antonio whipped him back. Lovino lost his balance and crashed against the Spaniard's chest. No sooner had he shrieked, however, then Antonio swept the boy into his arms, like a rescued damsel.

                "Silly, Lovi!" he chirped, laughing. "I have to carry you across the threshold. It's a time-honoured tradition, you know. There," he said in satisfaction, taking a great, deliberate lunge inside. "Now you truly belong to me, Lovino Vargas. Me— _and this house_ ," he whispered hauntingly.

                Lovino involuntarily shivered, unsure which prospect frightened him more.

                Antonio set him on his feet and then took off at once at a speedy pace, and Lovino had to hurry and follow or be left alone in the dark, dusty entrance-hall. The heels of his shoes echoed loudly and wetly as he chased after his husband, ducking under cobwebs and flinching at creaking floorboards. Anxiously, he grabbed the back of Antonio's drenched tunic and trailed him closely as the Spaniard led him through a labyrinth of empty rooms that had been ransacked by locals.

                "Can you believe it?" Antonio's voice was much too loud for such an eerie place. "I rented this house at such a discount! The landlord practically _gave_ it to me for the month."

                " _A month_!" Lovino gaped. "We're staying in this place for _a month_?"

                "At a discount!" Antonio reiterated proudly.

                "Why?"

                Antonio stopped so abruptly, Lovino bumped into him. His lithe body twisted and he glared down at Lovino suspiciously, the whites of his maniac green eyes aglow in the darkness. " _Why_?" he repeated sternly. "Don't you like it, _chiquito_?"

                "I-I—I do," Lovino lied, "it's just so... cold."

                "Awe, Lovi." Once again, Antonio's face transformed so suddenly, so smoothly, Lovino wondered which face revealed the man's true character. _Why are you playing with me_? he thought angrily, but he didn't dare speak a word to trigger the madman's volatile temper. He let Antonio pull him into a suffocating embrace, trying unsuccessfully to avoid the man's lips.

                "Don't worry, Lovi, I'll keep you warm," he purred, nibbling the shell of Lovino's ear.

                _I don't understand this man_ , Lovino thought as Antonio led him at a more considerate pace, never letting go of his hand. He squeezed it gently, like he had done in the chapel; it was reassuring. _One minute he's a big_ , _jolly idiot_ ; _the next he's on the cusp of losing his temper_ ; _the next he's trying to seduce me_. Antonio's behaviour was so odd and so unpredictable, it left Lovino too puzzled to be angry or scared or aroused. _He's more of a shrew than I am_! _Just what is he trying to do to me_?

                Despite the long journey, Antonio hadn't spoken a single word to Lovino the entire duration, not even when his horse had slipped in the ankle-deep mud and thrown them. Lovino had landed hard on his backside, which ached from sitting in a saddle so long, now bruised, but hadn't sustained any other injuries. However, Antonio had spit and swore in a tantrum befitting a furious toddler. His wild antics only succeeded in getting himself—and Lovino—even muddier, but even as he hoisted Lovino back into the saddle, he didn't address the boy at all. At first, Lovino was glad for the Spaniard's stony silence. There was nothing that he wanted to say to his new husband, except maybe _fuck you_. But as the miles stretched on and nightfall crept over them, he wished that Antonio would say something— _anything_. Lovino was cold and wet and his stomach growled hungrily; he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He already missed the inviting warmth of his family's hearth. He already missed the indulgence of his grandfather and annoying yet constant companionship of his little brother. He felt betrayed by both of them that they had cast him off so emotionlessly, as if he was nothing more beloved than a tolerable pet. Tears sprang to his eyes when he thought of his family's coolness, and all of the young gentlemen who had said such nasty things to him as if he didn't have feelings.

                _Well_ , _I do_ , he thought stubbornly; sadly. _I'm not made of stone._ He wished that people would realize that he had feelings that could be hurt, that he had a heart that could be broke. He knew that, because it was breaking now.

                _Why_? he wanted to ask Antonio as the Spaniard navigated a steep, rotting staircase. _Why are you doing this to me_? _You barely know me_! _Why are you torturing me_?

                Finally, Antonio stopped. "This will be our bedchamber," he announced, fitting a key into the lock. Then he stepped aside and bowed Lovino in, like a valet.

                Lovino was so surprised, he froze in the doorway.

                A crackling fire was leaping in the hearth, casting a bright glow over a comfortable living-space with panelled walls and a red fur rug to insulate the floor; heavy drapes were pulled closed over a tall window; an imported walnut wardrobe stood in the corner, it's doors hanging ajar to reveal clean, dry clothes inside; a chest with silver fastenings sat at the foot of the bed; and the bed itself was piled high with pillows and blankets and canopied to prevent drafts from the leaking ceiling. _Is this why he came to Venice while we prepared for the wedding_? Lovino eyed the room's comforts. It seemed unlikely that it would have been untouched by scavengers, so Antonio must have prearranged it before marrying him. _And he must have rushed up here to light the fire when we first arrived. That's why he told me to wait outside. I thought he was just being cruel_ , _making me wait in the rain_ , _but maybe he wanted this to be a surprise_? And a surprise it was. Lovino could have cried, it all looked so wonderful. He took a dreamy step inside, wanting nothing more than to fall into that soft, warm bed and sleep—

                —but Antonio pulled him back.

                A shock of panic seized Lovino. _Is he taunting me_? _Is that why he showed me this wonderful bedchamber_ , _even though he has no intention of letting me sleep in it_? _Is this just another one of his sadistic games_?

                "Lovi," said Antonio, brushing a tender finger across his cheek. "Awe, don't cry, _chiquito_. I just want you to take your muddy shoes off before you go inside."

                " _O-oh_ ," Lovino's voice was a shaky exhale of relief. "Oh yes, of course." He held Antonio's hand for balance as he unbuckled his ruined shoes, kicking them off. The Spaniard's lovely hands were warm and strong; firm, but gently so, so as not to hurt Lovino. They were talented hands, capable of a great many things, of that the boy had no doubts. He felt a little nervous thinking about what those hands would soon do to him, how they would touch him, but when he looked up at Antonio's green-eyed face— _a handsome face_ , _such beautiful eyes_ —and saw the Spaniard's bedazzling smile— _a gorgeous smile_ , _such perfect teeth_ —Lovino felt himself smiling coyly back in gratitude. It had been such an awful night. The journey had been so long and uncomfortable, but maybe he hadn't given his husband enough credit?

                "Antonio," he began, but the Spaniard interrupted:

                "Now your clothes."

                " _Pardon_?"

                "Take off your clothes," Antonio clarified. His tone was lighthearted, but his smile stiffened, irritated at being questioned. It wasn't a request; it was an order.

                "But I don't have anything else—"

                "You won't need anything else, Lovi, I promise. Now take everything off, or _I'll_ take it off you," he threatened.

                Nervously, Lovino began unbuttoning his shirt, his fingers shaking so badly they fumbled. As each wet layer peeled off, so did a layer of the boy's dignity, until he was standing in nothing but a thigh-high chemise. He could feel himself blushing as Antonio's calculating eyes appraised his exposed figure, and found himself hoping that he pleased the fickle Spaniard. He didn't know what he would do if Antonio's temper flared just then. He felt vulnerable, naked, even though he wasn't. Not yet.

                "Take it _all_ off, Lovi," Antonio said, waiting for his spouse to comply.

                " _Please_..." Lovino whispered beseechingly. But Antonio didn't relent. Impatiently, he grabbed the ribbons at the boy's collar and yanked them free, then tugged off the chemise as if husking a cob of corn. Lovino made a pitiful noise and attempted to shield himself, but Antonio grabbed both of his wrists. Crying, Lovino shook his head. "I don't understand," he said helplessly, looking up into the glaring face of his husband. "I don't understand what you want from me. Why are you doing this to me? Why are you tormenting me? _Why_?"

                Antonio ignored Lovino's plea and manhandled him effortlessly into the bedchamber, casting him onto the bed. It was soft and warm, but Lovino barely registered it. He snatched a blanket and held it chastely to himself to hide his nudity, curling-up like a cornered animal against the elaborate headboard. He watched Antonio strip off layer after layer of colourful clothes, soiled with mud, until the Spaniard stood in only his dry hose and a long white shirt.

                " _I don't understand_..." Lovino repeated, flinching as Antonio's weight settled down on the bed; as Antonio reached out for him.

                "Do you not, _chiquito_?" he asked in a gentle, hopeful voice. His fingers touched Lovino's cheek, and again it was tender, brushing off his tears. "Look at me, Lovi. Don't be afraid of me, look at me. Don't you know why I'm doing this?" he asked, meeting Lovino's frightened gaze. "You do. You're not a fool, you're smart; you're observant. Why did your grandfather agree to this marriage?"

                "Because... of my brother," Lovino answered meekly.

                "Why? Why your brother?" Antonio prompted.

                "Because... Feliciano has suitors, _many_ suitors. And I don't. But Grandpapa wanted me to be married first."

                "Yes, but _why_? Why do you think that everyone was so eager for you and I to be married? Why do you think all your brother's suitors attended?"

                "Because..." Lovino's brow furrowed in sudden enlightenment, "they're the ones who arranged it... so that Grandpapa would let one of them marry Feliciano."

                Antonio sat back and grinned. "See? I knew you weren't dense. I knew you... Lovi—? Oh, no, _chiquito_ , don't cry," he said, his eyes widening in sympathy. Brazenly, he took both of Lovino's hands and squeezed them in comfort. "Don't you understand now, Lovi? Don't you understand what we're doing here, what _I'm_ doing here?"

                "You were paid to marry me because no one wants me," Lovino cried, bowing his head. "Everyone hates me. They paid you to get rid of me."

                "Yes," Antonio admitted. Lovino cried harder. "But we're going to make them regret it," he continued, trying to cheer the boy. "That's why we're here, Lovi. It's a game, _chiquito_. An act. It's all an act and we're just acting parts in a play, don't you understand?" he asked eagerly, squeezing Lovino's hands. "Look at you," he said kindly, "you've got such wonderful fire in you, Lovi, but you're so young." Lovino scoffed and tried to pull away, but Antonio drew him in closer. "You're clever and talented and resourceful. You've got all the tools of a great player, you just need to be taught how to use those gifts. That's why we're here. That's why _I'm_ here. Trust me," he asked, leaning down intimately close. "Trust me, and you'll have your revenge. You're not the bait, Lovino, you're the prize. The others just haven't realized it yet. They haven't realized that I've already won, because I have you."

                Lovino's lip quivered. "You're a fool," he said. It slipped out. But Antonio didn't get angry; he merely shook his head.

                "No," he said seriously, " _they're_ the fools, because they gave you up, because they can't see who you really are. But they will. We're going to make them regret casting you off. We're going to make them regret every nasty thing they ever said to you or about you. We're going to make them regret playing with us, trying to make us both look like fools. Nobody plays with Antonio Fernández Carriedo, or my Lovino. Together you and I are going to win this game." Gently, he kissed Lovino's knuckles. "Please tell me you understand now, _chiquito_?"

                Lovino's eyes were  big and glossy when he lifted his head and looked into the handsome face of his green-eyed husband. " _No_ ," he said in a terrified whisper. " _No_ , _I... Oh_ , _God._ _You really are mad_ , _aren't you_?"

                "No, Lovino, I—"

                "Can we please just get this over with?" Lovino cut in, looking away. Looking ashamed. He was shaking like a leaf from head-to-toe.

                Antonio frowned. "What?" he asked.

                Lovino's flushed face blushed redder, but he managed to sound indignant when he said: "Our wedding night. Can we please just get it over with? I'm tired."

                Antonio sighed and eased Lovino slowly down, guiding him onto his back in a nest of pillows. Lovino let him. He laid back and closed his eyes, trying not to make a peep as he felt Antonio reposition himself, jostling the mattress. He could feel the Spaniard's warm body-heat and smell his musky, masculine scent. He could feel the touch of strong, capable hands sliding up his forearms, his biceps, his shoulders. At his neck they stopped. Lovino swallowed the lump of fear in his throat, heart beating wildly in anticipation. His body tensed as he felt Antonio's weight lean slowly down, felt the whisper of his hot breath. Then—

                —Antonio kissed Lovino's forehead.

                "Sleep now, Lovi," he said kindly, leaving the bed. "We'll talk in the morning."

 

* * *

**LATER**

 

Lovino was deep asleep. Antonio was sitting by the fire, staring at him. He had been staring at the boy—his newlywed spouse—for a long time. Lovino was lying on his side with one hand flung out over the bed's edge, hanging limply. His hands were very fine-boned, like a painter's; Antonio could have crushed them. The fire's glow lit his face, like liquid-gold. His thick black eyelashes cast long shadows on his rosy cheeks. His skin was smooth and unmarked and so, so soft. Antonio's hands absently clenched and unclenched, remembering the feel of the boy's beautiful body.

                Finally, the call of a night-bird roused Antonio from his thoughts. It was late. He undressed and was about to crawl into the bed, but stopped. He fetched clean underclothes from the wardrobe, dressed, and then returned to bed. The last thing he wanted was Lovino waking suddenly, disoriented, with a naked man beside him, husband or not. He had seen the boy viciously lash-out before. It was, admittedly, what had attracted him to Lovino from the start. Unlike his fellows, he didn't see an unconquerable shrew when he looked at Lovino. He saw passion. Passion that he wanted to possess; to consume. Passion that might match his own. He could never be happy with a quiet, subservient spouse who obeyed his every wish, but he wouldn't tell the others that. He wouldn't tell them that he had no intention of taming Lovino Vargas. Not if he wanted to win the game they were secretly playing. Antonio's real plan was to make them all believe that he had tamed the boy, take the rewards he was promised, and then parade the boy in front of them in all of his perfect glory, letting them burn with envy; letting Lovino take his revenge, too. The mere thought excited the young Spaniard. He couldn't wait to see all of their dumbfounded faces. But if that were to happen, Lovino had to play his part. He had to believe Antonio. He had to trust Antonio.

                Cautiously, Antonio pulled back the blankets and slipped under. The bed was warm with Lovino's preserved body-heat. Antonio inhaled his scent. The bedding was saturated in the mildness of the boy's sweat, the natural scent of his skin, and the fabricated fragrance of soap and faint perfume. He swallowed, suppressing a tense, carnal hunger and the urge to roll over and grab the boy; touch him; taste him; take him.

                Instead, he closed his eyes and considered his plan.

                _I'll tame him like a falconer tames a bird-of-prey_ , he thought. _I'll starve him_ , _deprive him_ , _make him yearn for his old life. I'll make him desperate for it_ , _willing to do anything to get it back—anything to win. I'll teach him to play the crafty games of the aristocracy. I'll teach him to fight_ , _not with fists but with words. I'll guide him the way a director guides an actor_ , _and show him the raw talent he already possesses. I'll teach him how to refine it and use it for his own benefit_ ; _for my benefit._

 _I'm sorry_ , _Lovino_. His green eyes opened, reflecting the firelight. _I'm sorry I have to hurt you_ , _my dearest. I don't want to_ , _but it's the only way to make you truly understand_ _what is at risk if we lose._ Antonio had no wealth; he needed Lovino. Lovino had no strategy; he needed Antonio. _None of us know what it is we really want until it's gone_ ; _stolen_ ; _broken. I'm going to break you_ , _Lovino Vargas_ , _and build you back up as something truly great._

                If Lovino had been weak and fragile, like Feliciano, Antonio wouldn't have dared such a risky strategy. If he had been anyone else, he wouldn't be so determined, so convinced of his success. If he had been anyone else, Antonio wouldn't have married him.

                _It's because I know you're strong_ , _Lovino. I know you can survive. I know you can be better._

                Risking his fragile self-control, Antonio rolled over and placed a feather-soft kiss on his spouse's cheek. And he smiled.

                "Sweet dreams, _cariño_."


	7. Act IV Scene II

**PADUA**

**_at Roma's villa._ **

 

**_Enter_ ** **FRANCIS, LARS ( _as Ludwig_ ), LUDWIG ( _as Lars_ ) _and_ FELICIANO.**

 

 _Oh_... _Mm_... _ah_ , _yes._.."

                Feliciano moaned wantonly and threw his head back, long-lashed eyes closed and lips parted. Francis watched him in secret, captivated by slivers of the boy's delicious skin, bared as buttons gave way to eager fingers and creamy damask slipped off a slender shoulder. Lips ravenously descended to that shoulder, sucking it, and the boy arched his back, indecently exposing more of himself to the intimate touch of a man who was not Francis.

                _I'm going to kill that sneaky German bastard_ , he thought, glaring daggers at Ludwig, whom Feliciano was straddling. Francis felt like a peeping fool spying on them from the rose garden, but it had been purely accidental. He hadn't expected to come across the object of his deepest affection shamelessly encouraging the amorous attention of another man. A servant, no less!

                "Disgraceful," he muttered, his jaw and fists clenched. "I can't believe Feliciano would prefer someone else over me—and someone of _his_ station, a mere Latin tutor! It's undignified! I wouldn't think it even possible if I weren't seeing it with my own eyes. He always behaves so well in public."

                Lars, who was standing beside Francis, feigned agreement. "An act, I suppose. Just how many gentlemen do you think he's seduced?" he wondered, egging on Francis' displeasure.

                The Frenchman took the bait and gaped. "You don't think... I mean, Feliciano wouldn't have... with someone else, right, Ludwig?"

                Lars shrugged helplessly. "Love is a spiteful thing, isn't it?" he dodged.

                The ambiguity of his reply upset Francis. "That isn't love," he spat, like a self-proclaimed expert. "It's a pitiful display of young lust. I refuse to court a boy who would choose a low-class tutor over myself. Or a boy cruel enough to play with the feelings of others, for that matter. He's made a fool of us all. You too, Ludwig," he said, looking at Lars. "I heard that you had also propositioned Roma for Feliciano's hand. It seems that we've both been played, my friend."

                "Oh, yes," Lars agreed. He mustered all of the dramatic flair he could—which wasn't much—and cried: "Oh! Faithless wretch! Now that I've seen the truth of Feliciano's worthlessness, I'll join you in swearing him off for good if you like. I mean, just look at how they behave with each other, kissing and carrying on." He waved a dismissive hand at Ludwig and Feliciano's eagerness. "It's revolting! Francis, let's you and I both promise that neither of us will _ever_ accept Feliciano Vargas in marriage, what do you say, friend?"

                Francis' tempered simmered with betrayal. "I want nothing more to do with Feliciano Vargas—or any Vargas for that matter. In fact, I'm done with Italy and it's superficial beauty," he declared rashly. "As soon as I can, I'm going home to France and marriage be damned!"

 

**_Exit_ ** **FRANCIS.**

 

                Lars waited until he was out of sight, then signaled to the amorous couple. Ludwig stopped groping the boy, and Feliciano slid casually off his lap. As he readjusted the lay of his garments, Lars strode into the garden to report:

                "Well, sweet, innocent Feliciano," he said, grinning in mockery, "after witnessing your utter shamelessness, it seems that Francis and I have both given up on pursuing you."

                "Are you sure? It really worked?" Feliciano asked, beaming brightly. "Oh! Ludwig," he cried happily, clasping the German's hand, "if Francis is out of the picture, that only leaves Gilbert. Then we can be married!"

                Lars snorted. "Roma would no sooner give you to Gilbert than to a Persian harem, Feliciano. Uh, no offense," he said for Ludwig's benefit. Ludwig rolled his eyes, but he didn't argue. Lars was right; Gilbert's militant reputation was unparalleled for commanding soldiers, but did not bode well for winning the hearts of young, fragile boys. "He'll bow out as soon as he realizes you're not interested," Lars guessed. "He's not in the habit of chasing, he's too proud for that. Besides, once the two of you are married, he'll have no choice but to be happy for you. If history has taught us anything, it's that Gilbert Beilschmidt can't stay angry at his sweet baby-brother," said the Dutchman, poking Ludwig.

                "And Francis—?" Feliciano enquired. "Is he very upset?"

                "Oh, yes," Lars grinned, " _very_. In fact, he's decided to leave Italy."

                "It's just as well," said Ludwig logically. "He's too old to be courting teenagers. He'd be much better off with someone his own age."

                "I saw him leering at Arthur Kirkland at Lovino's wedding reception," Lars gossiped.

                Ludwig's lips twitched in amusement. "Crazy Kirkland—?" he asked in disbelief. "Do you really think Francis could handle him? Don't forget, that tea-guzzling conjurer comes with a lot of baggage."

                Lars shrugged. "Cute baggage, though. Maybe if Francis attended Antonio's shrew-taming class—?" he joked.

                Ludwig laughed.

                Feliciano frowned. "What are you both talking about?" he asked.

                Ludwig, noting the boy's suspicion, composed himself. "Nothing you need worry about, _schatz_ ," he assured, taking Feliciano's hand in his.

                Feliciano seemed placated by the German's touch. He smiled, and said: "How soon can we be married?"

                "As soon as we find someone to imitate my Vater," Ludwig replied.

                "Oh, speaking of..." said Lars, letting the implication linger. After a suitably dramatic pause, he continued: "I think I've found the perfect candidate. I met him yesterday in town. He's a merchant or a shopkeeper, I think. But he's respectable-looking and his clothes are very fine. He's old enough to play your father, uh... a rather young father, but I doubt anyone will ask him for details of your conception. His name is Ivan Braginsky, and all he asks for in return is a small cut of the winnings—I mean, Feliciano's dowry, of course."

                "Fine," Ludwig agreed. "As long as he can play the part and broker a marriage contract with Roma, I have no objections."

                "Good," said Lars. "Shall we go meet him, then?"

 

**_Exit_ ** **LARS, LUDWIG _and_ FELICIANO.        **

 

* * *

**_Enter_ ** **FRANCIS, ARTHUR, ALFRED _and_ MATTHEW.**

 

Francis was distracted as he took his leave of the Vargas' villa. His sapphire-blue traveling cloak swept the floor as he marched to the front doors, in such a self-entitled—humiliated—fury that he ignored the footmen, shoved open the doors, and narrowly missed colliding with the surprised Englishman, who had been about to knock on it. Arthur leapt clumsily back, nearly losing his balance as the doors crashed forcefully against the outside walls. Alfred and Matthew jumped behind their father, each grabbing one of his trouser-legs to use as a shield. The footmen glared at the English and Frenchman both, but neither man noticed.

                "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Francis, feeling uncharacteristically flustered.

                "It's fine, Monsieur Bonnefoi," said Arthur reticently.

                Francis felt ashamed of his uncouth exit, embarrassed that the Englishman should see him lose his temper. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," he said kindly to the boys, who were peeking out from behind Arthur's legs.

                Matthew smiled shyly when he recognized Francis, but didn't come out of hiding.

                Alfred said (rather loudly): "I know you! Daddy," he tugged on Arthur's coat, "that's the Frenchman who you said was really, _really_ handsome!"

                Arthur made an indefinable gasp of distress—" _gah_!"—and quickly covered Alfred's mouth. "Come along now, boys, we have a lesson to attend. Let's not keep Signore Vargas waiting," he said, herding both children up the steps. "I'm sorry about that," he said to Francis, blushing like a schoolboy.

                "Not at all," Francis grinned, confidence restored. He stepped gracefully aside to allow the family entry. "A very good-day to you, Mister Kirkland."

                Arthur's freckled face blushed redder and he avoided eye-contact. "And to you, Monsieur Bonnefoi.

                "Alfred, what have I told you?" Francis heard Arthur mutter once they were safely inside, unaware of how his voice echoed in the vast entrance-hall.

                "But you said—"

                "I know what I said, but you shouldn't repeat everything Daddy says."

                "Why not?"

                "Because I say so!"

                Alfred huffed. "But you _just said not to_ —"

                Francis chuckled as he watched the family get swallowed by the monolithic villa: Alfred skipping cheerfully backwards as he argued with his father, and red-faced Arthur wagging a reprimanding finger at him while dragging Matthew hurriedly along behind. Just before they disappeared, the little violet-eyed boy looked over-the-shoulder and spotted Francis in the doorway. Clumsily, he waved in farewell.

                Francis waved in reply, the child's sweet smile melting his heart along with his anger.

 

**_Exit_ ** **FRANCIS, ARTHUR, ALFRED _and_ MATTHEW.**

 

* * *

**_a public place._ **

**_Enter_ ** **LARS, LUDWIG _and_ IVAN.**

 

Lars and Ludwig arrived in the piazza just as the bell-tower was loudly chiming high-noon. The gentleman awaiting them was a behemoth of a man, who was even taller and broader than the Germanic cousins; paler, too. His silver-blonde hair gleaned in the sunlight like platinum. Ludwig immediately noted the man's rich attire—or, lack thereof. He was dressed in as few garments as possible without sacrificing modesty or dignity. As promised, his clothes were of a fine quality, but made of a thick, dark material that was much too heavy for the sunny Italian climate, which likely explained his bare arms and lack of accessories. As they neared, he could see a reflective sprinkle of sweat on the man's forehead and a flush in his otherwise sun-starved face. Ludwig sympathized. He, too, found today unbearably hot, though he seemed to be dealing with it better than Ivan Braginsky.

                "Ah, Herr Beilschmidt," Ivan guessed. He shook Ludwig's hand firmly. "Ivan Braginsky."

                Ludwig nodded, indicating that it was a pleasure to make the gentleman's acquaintance, even if he did feel, for the first time in his life, somewhat dwarfed. "What country are you from, if I may ask?" he enquired, struggling to place Ivan's heavy accent.

                "Russia," he replied.

                " _Russia_ ," Ludwig repeated. Quickly, he exchanged an apprehensive look with Lars. "You are a long way from home, friend."

                Ivan merely nodded, looking wan. "The truth is, I find myself in a predicament that I'm hoping your money will solve," he said ambiguously. "I trust, since you're here, you agree to my bargain?"

                "Yes," said Ludwig formally. "If you can convince Roma Vargas that you are, indeed, my Vater and negotiate a marriage contract for Feliciano and myself, then a portion of the boy's dowry is yours. If not, you won't get a penny. I'll admit, I do have my doubts about this." He cast a glance at Lars, who merely shrugged, then back at the Russian. "You just don't look old enough to be mine and Gilbert's father, and you don't sound like us either," he explained. "Do you have a disguise, perhaps?"

                Ivan smiled then, and it transformed his whole face. His eyes narrowed and his mouth curved into a frigid, yet impish grin. "Don't worry about that," he said, drawing out each syllable. His deep voice was honey-smooth. "I will take care of everything, _son_ ," and he clapped Ludwig's shoulder.

                Ludwig swallowed. He couldn't help but feel like they were making a fatal mistake trusting the mysterious Russian, but it was too late to retract the offer now. Besides, he was desperate to marry Feliciano—a couple of shady characters be damned! As long as Roma ate the lie there would be no complications, and that was resting entirely on Ivan. All Ludwig could do now was pray for the Russian's discretion and hope the small percentage they had offered him was enough to buy his cooperation and—more importantly—his silence.

                "Now," Ivan smiled, business aside. He threw a big, heavy arm over each cousin's shoulders in comradeship and squeezed, perhaps a trifle too hard. "Why don't you boys treat your dear old father to a drink?"


	8. Act IV Scene III

**VENICE**

**_a dilapidated villa._ **

 

**_Enter_ ** **LOVINO.**

 

Lovino woke abruptly, terrified out of a nightmare by a long, howling shriek. He shot upright in bed, the blankets pooling at his waist, gold-flecked eyes wide and searching. It was after dawn, but the sky outside was stone-grey and raining, the wind blowing into the chimney and echoing inside with a howl. _Oh_ , _God_ , he sighed, recognizing the culprit of the scream. Despite himself, he shivered. The wind had blown the fire out and the bedchamber was cold. In defense, he pulled the blanket up to his naked chest, and, when he came up against no resistance, only then noticed the absence of Antonio (who liked to hog the blankets). "Antonio—?" he called anxiously into the silence, which wasn't silent at all. The old house wheezed and creaked and moaned as it was beaten by wind and rain, the storm casting the room in flickering shadows. Lovino tugged the blanket tight around himself and bravely left the bed, foot landing in a puddle from the leaking roof. He got dressed in clothes that were too large for him—clothes that he would later realize belonged to Antonio—and, heart pounding, left the bedchamber.

                "A-Antonio—?" he called again, voice shaking.

                The wind echoed eerily in the empty corridor, but no one answered.

                _He didn't leave me here_ , Lovino told himself as he wandered down the long, dark passage. _He's a lunatic_ , _but he wouldn't have just left me here. He wouldn't have abandoned me here all alone—would he_?

                An angry, gurgling noise made the boy suddenly jump, until he realized it was the growling of his own empty stomach. He felt faint with hunger. The only thing he had eaten since leaving Padua was slimy, barely cooked tripe on crusty bread. Antonio had called it "a feast!" and refused to dish-out seconds, which—after Lovino had mastered his gag-reflex—the boy had begged for. "No, no, Lovi," Antonio had said, contradicting his earlier statement, "I can't bear the thought of you having to eat anything less than culinary artistry!" And with that, he flung the food out the window. Lovino knew that it was a lie, of course; that the mad Spaniard's true intention was to starve his newlywed spouse, but he didn't understand why. Nor did he understand why Antonio had insisted on Lovino bathing in ice-cold water when they could have easily stoked the fire. Or why he woke Lovino every hour of the night for no apparent reason, which prevented the boy from getting a decent night's sleep. Or why, despite his leering and provocative language, he hadn't actually touched Lovino since their first night together. Antonio pushed him and pulled him and ruffled his hair, but he had never touched Lovino in a way that would suggest any sexual attraction. It made Lovino feel strangely hollow; he, who had always thought himself so beautiful. Though he wouldn't ever admit it, Antonio's lack of enthusiasm for his new virgin spouse was disappointing (especially since the Spaniard, himself, was so mouth-wateringly handsome). It had only been a couple of days, but Lovino had never felt more lost in his whole life.

                _I want to go home_ , he thought, then recalled the cruel indifference of his family members and nearly cried.

 

**_Enter_ ** **ANTONIO.**

 

                " _Chiquito_?"

                Lovino screeched when a hand landed on his shoulder. In self-defense, he frantically groped for a serviceable weapon and, because there was none, ended up attacking Antonio with his own soft, leather shoe. When he realized it was Antonio, he didn't stop. "You bastard!" he shouted, fear heating into anger as he beat his shoe harmlessly against the Spaniard. "You dirty, rotten, inconsiderate scoundrel!"

                "Lovi, what's wrong—"

                "I've had enough of this place!" Lovino seethed, interrupting Antonio's protest. "I hate it here! It's cold and wet and dark and it smells weird! Don't just leave me here all alone in this awful place! I'm starving! I'm dizzy from no sleep! I want a real bath and a real hot meal in a real house! I'm sick of you and your stupid games! I want to go home! Take me home, you bastard! Take me home _right now_!

                " _I just want to go home_..."

                Lovino was sobbing before he realized it. His shoe fell to the floor with a soft _thud_ as he grasped handfuls of Antonio's shirt.

                "Oh, _chiquito_ , don't cry," said Antonio, looping his arms around the boy.

                Lovino felt so weak. His legs were shaking so badly, he was afraid he would collapse. Instead, he relied on the strong, solid body of his husband. He leant into the embrace and pressed his forehead to Antonio's chest, burying his face as he cried angry, exhausted tears. Antonio's touch was gentle, but firm; protective. He whispered soothing words as he held Lovino, resting his chin atop the boy's silky head, but it only made Lovino cry more because he knew that it was false. He knew that Antonio's kindness was false and fleeting, but he couldn't help how safe he felt wrapped in the Spaniard's inviting arms. He felt ashamed of wanting a man who clearly didn't want him in return; a man who abused him and called it love, but he couldn't help it. Antonio was all he had.

                _I'm pathetic_ , he thought, depressed. _I'm weak_ _and worthless. No one wants me. No one will ever want me. My own family couldn't wait to get rid of me. I'm so_ , _so lonely_.

                "Lovi," said Antonio soothingly. "It's okay, don't cry, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, _chiquito_. I'm here."

                Lovino whined and hugged the man tighter.

                "Lovi—?"

                Lovino didn't reply or lift his head as Antonio scooped him into his arms. He kept his face buried against the tear-soaked collar of the Spaniard's shirt, taking comfort in the feel of the man's warm, smooth skin. A summer storm continued to howl outside, but inside—suddenly—the house seemed silent, as if Antonio's mere presence was keeping it at bay. Soon, they re-entered the bedchamber and Lovino felt the mattress sink beneath Antonio's weight as he sat.

                "Are you still frightened of this villa, Lovi? I'm so sorry. I only left to collect a letter that arrived from Padua," Antonio said, continuing to talk despite Lovino's silence. As he did, he rubbed his thumb across Lovino's shoulder. It felt good. "Well, it's not so much a letter as it is a wedding invitation," he mused, rambling. "A summons, really. Your brother is getting married to the German next week and we're expected to attend."

                "My brother—?" Slowly, Lovino raised his head. His eyes were raw; his brow was furrowed in puzzlement. "Which German?"

                "Ludwig Beilschmidt," Antonio reported.

                "Oh," he said, failing to muster any excitement. The truth was, he didn't care what—or who—his little brother did. He shrugged indifferently. "Whatever."

                "Hey," Antonio said, lifting Lovino's downcast chin with a single finger. "Cheer up, Lovi. It won't be so awful, weddings are fun! Ours was lovely, don't you think?"

                Lovino cocked an eyebrow at him, annoyed.

                Antonio chuckled. "I've got something for you," he added in a playful, sing-song voice, "something I think you're going to really like."

                Lovino stared doubtfully.

                Smiling, Antonio shifted the boy's lightweight on his lap, keeping one warm hand planted on his lower-back for balance, and shrugged off the satchel that Lovino only now noticed he had been carrying. One-handed, he fished inside it and produced a perfectly-ripe red tomato, which he presented to his wide-eyed spouse. Lovino's whole mouth watered hungrily and he grabbed for it, but Antonio held it out of reach.

                " _Ah_ , _ah_ ," he said, grinning impishly.

                Lovino glared back, his red eyes making him look younger than his eighteen years.

                Antonio cocked his head and waited patiently, his green eyes sparkling.

                Finally, Lovino sighed. He hated giving in, but the temptation of the juicy tomato made his stomach twist in hunger. "Please..." he muttered sullenly.

                " _Please_ —?"

                The Italian's cheeks flushed angrily. "Please," he said through clenched teeth, "my dearest husband, the love of my life."

                " _Awe_!" Antonio crooned happily. "How could I resist such a sweet request from my darling _chiquito_!" he said loudly, handing the tomato—the whole satchel-full—to Lovino, who crawled off the Spaniard's lap and dug ravenously into it. "I would do anything for you, my love," he added, and kissed Lovino's cheek.

                Lovino ignored him and ate, his face as red as the tomatoes.

 

**_Exit_ ** **ANTONIO _and_ LOVINO.**

 

* * *

**ONE WEEK LATER**

 

**_Enter_ ** **ANTONIO _and_ LOVINO.**

 

Lovi, how are you, _chiquito_?" called Antonio, striding purposefully into the bedchamber.

                "I've been better," Lovino replied flatly. He was standing on his toes on the bed, his body stretched as far as it could be stretched as he reached up to the ceiling, trying to cover a gaping hole. The last week's rainstorm, which had persisted for three days, had forced the old, sagging ceiling to finally give up the ghost and collapse, leaving the third-floor bedchamber open to the elements. "Sleeping under the stars is so romantic!" Antonio said when the ceiling and canopy had suddenly caved-in on them, ignoring the plaster dusting his hair. Lovino had punched him.

                "Do you want to give me a hand, dearest?" the boy growled now, fighting with a ratty blanket. Before Antonio could answer, he lost his balance and fell backwards onto the mattress, the blanket sailing down on top of him.

                "Not really," said Antonio honestly, lifting up a corner of the blanket to peek at his angry spouse. He smiled.

                Grudgingly, the Italian took the Spaniard's offered hand and let Antonio pull him into a cross-legged sitting position.                "What's in that?" he asked, pointing to a large burlap sack. "You don't have a dead body in there, do you?"

                "No, not this time," Antonio teased (Lovino hoped). "I took the liberty of choosing some outfits for us to wear to your brother's wedding."

                Lovino perked-up; he liked new clothes. "Oh, really? May I see it... _my dearest_?" he added, noting Antonio's insistence.

                "Of course!" Antonio grabbed the sack and flipped it upside-down with a flourish, dislodging several tattered articles of old clothing.

                Lovino's hope deflated. "Uh, _dearest_?" he emphasized scornfully, plucking a moth-eaten lace shirt. "What in hell is this?"

                "Clothes. Do you want to try it on?" Antonio asked, excited.

                In reply, Lovino balled-up the shirt and fired it at him. "I know I shouldn't be surprised," he said evenly, "but you don't really expect me to wear these— _rags_ —to my brother's wedding, do you?"

                "Because he was so considerate at yours?" Antonio countered.

                Lovino opened his mouth, then paused. To avoid the cutting remark, he began rummaging through the pile of clothes on the floor in search of something salvageable. "Oh, this is kind of nice. It's a little outdated, but... vintage," he said, pleased. He held a blood-red shirt with embroidered sleeves to his person to gauge its size and then smiled as he absently swayed back-and-forth in satisfaction. That is, until Antonio ripped it from his hands. " _Ah_ , hey!"

                "No, not this. This is awful, you'll look like a harlot. My Lovi isn't a harlot."

                "Wait, don't!" Lovino lunged, but he was too slow. Antonio flung the shirt out the window. Lovino growled in frustration, hanging halfway out the window, his arm outstretched. " _AH_! Why are you so—so—so— _impossible_?

                " _Ach_!"

                He involuntarily squeaked when Antonio's arms coiled snake-like around his middle, the man leaning down so that his front pressed snug to the boy's back. "You're not trying to escape, are you, Lovi?" he purred in Lovino's ear. It was a joke, but his arms tightened around Lovino, as if he really was worried that the boy would jump. Like a cat, he rubbed his cheek against the back of Lovino's head. "Why are you so concerned with how you look, _chiquito_?" he said in a soft, yet serious tone. "We'll attend your brother's wedding in simple, honest clothing—and probably be the only honest things there. Looks don't matter _._ The sun shines through the clouds, doesn't it? Just as natural beauty shines through the humblest style of dress. You don't need expensive garments and jewels to make everyone green with envy, Lovi. You, my little spitfire, are the most beautiful person in the whole world _just—like—this_ ," he whispered, kissing the boy's jaw, neck, and shoulder with each word.

                Lovino's heartbeat skipped.

                "I-I-I—" he stuttered, chest tightening.

                "Lovi—?" the Spaniard's lips brushed his earlobe.

                Swallowing, Lovino turned around and faced Antonio, awkwardly pressing their lower-bodies together. He placed a hand to the Spaniard's chest and pushed. Antonio complied and took half-a-step back, loosening his hold on the boy, but not letting go. His hands rested casually on the subtle curve of his spouse's slender hips.

                "What is it, my love?"

                "I-I just—I just—Thank-you," Lovino mumbled, accepting the compliment with a bashful, downcast gaze. He felt Antonio's fingers thread through his hair. It felt so good, he wanted to lean into it, but he didn't. At least, not until Antonio gently grasped the back of his head and guided him slowly, yet deliberately into a kiss. For a moment, Lovino froze, surprised. Then his eyes drifted closed and he let himself sink unresistingly into his husband's delicious touch. It was much softer than their first kiss—their wedding kiss—and much longer, playing to no audience but each other. Lovino felt Antonio's full lips move skillfully against his and returned the gesture in kind, laying his hands flat against the man's muscular chest. Eventually, Antonio pulled back first. His lips curled into a tender smile as he looked down at his young, blushing spouse, and said:

                "You're welcome."

 

**_Exit_ ** **ANTONIO _and_ LOVINO.**


	9. Act IV Scene IV

**PADUA**

**_at Roma's villa._ **

 

**_Enter_ ** **IVAN ( _as Herr Beilschmidt_ ), LUDWIG ( _as Lars_ ) _and_ LARS ( _as Ludwig_ ).**

 

Ivan, stop that," Ludwig scolded, slapping the Russian's hand. They were standing on the Vargas family's doorstep awaiting entrance—again—and Ivan kept tugging at his high, buttoned collar uncomfortably. His skin was flushed and sweaty underneath, but Ludwig had insisted that he dress properly according to his supposed social-standing. If that meant weating under layers of lace and beaded embroidery, gold thread, rich fur and feathers, then so be it.

                "I feel like I'm chafing," Ivan said inelegantly. "If this gives me a rash"—he scratched at his chest through the silk shirt—"I'm going to beat you to death with a metal pipe."

                Ludwig wondered if the Russian was joking, but tactfully chose to ignore it. "Stop it!" he snapped. "My Vater would never make such a fuss. And stand up straight. Just play your part and act the way a respectable father should."

                Ivan grudgingly squared his shoulders and stood to his full height, towering over the Italian footman, who opened the door.

                "Signore Vargas will receive you now, Herr Beilschmidt," he said, bowing Ivan and Lars inside.

 

**_Exit_ ** **IVAN _and_ LARS.**

 

**_Enter_ ** **FELICIANO.**

 

                Ludwig was invited to await his _master_ 's return in the garden where, unbeknownst to everyone else (except Lars), the Vargas' second-son was hiding. When Feliciano spotted Ludwig, he emerged from a gazebo and hurried to meet him. Ludwig sucked in his breath as the boy approached, struck by his uncommon beauty. He looked like an angel dressed in pale-coloured silk from the top of his auburn head to the toes of his polished, heeled shoes. An angel, or a blushing virgin ready to be wed. Ludwig kissed him in greeting and then hastily took him by the delicate hand.

                "Come on," he said, leading the boy away. "Ivan and Lars will try to stall for as long as possible, but I doubt we have much time. The priest is already waiting at St. Luke's. We need to hurry."

 

* * *

Feliciano squeezed Ludwig's hand and jogged to keep pace with his (secret) fiancé's long strides. He knew he was smiling like a fool, but he couldn't help it. The nervous excitement of eloping with Ludwig made his heart pound like a drum. Together, they left the garden by a hidden gate Feliciano had discovered years ago, which opened into the lower-street parallel to the harbour. It's how he had been sneaking men into the rose garden for the better part of his youth, but he wouldn't tell Ludwig that. It was better to leave some things unsaid. Besides, it's not as if he had done anything compromising with any of those other men. They were just... practice. Feliciano was, despite what Lovino thought, a virgin in accordance with Catholic law. It's not his fault that the law left room for interpretation. _All that matters is that I've never been penetrated by a man—not yet_ , _anyway_ , he thought, gazing lustfully at his gorgeous  soon-to-be husband. He had never wanted anyone more.

                In the narrow low-street, a handsome dark horse was waiting impatiently. It whinnied when Ludwig took the reins, shaking its emblazoned head.

                _Yes_ , _I know_ , Feliciano thought, resting a soothing hand on its neck, _I'm impatient_ , _too_.

                Ludwig lifted Feliciano effortlessly up into the saddle, but he, himself, paused before following. He looked up at his sixteen-year-old intended, his sky-blue eyes bright in adoration, his cheeks flushed, and he said:

                "Are you sure this is what you want?"

                Feliciano's heart melted at the soft, tender words. "Yes," he replied, smiling at the German. It was an honest smile, the first in a _very_ long time. In proof, he stroked Ludwig's pale cheek. "Yes, I'm sure, my love. I've never wanted anything more."

                Ludwig smiled in return. He hoisted himself into the saddle behind the Italian and wrapped an arm securely around the boy's midsection. It felt good. Feliciano felt safe and protected in Ludwig's arms. He felt wanted for more than just his good-looks. Comfortably, he leant back into the man's broad chest and bowed his head to rest it against Ludwig's beating heart. Beneath him, the horse's muscular body rippled as it danced into a fast canter, taking the boy away from his family, his home, his city, his old life, and on toward the beginning of a new life with the man he had—unexpectedly—fallen deeply in love with. And he couldn't be happier.

                As they left the city gates, Ludwig leant down and pressed a soft kiss to Feliciano's temple.

                "By the way, _schatz_ ," he whispered in secret, as if afraid someone else would hear him, "you look beautiful."

 

**_Exit_ ** **LUDWIG _and_ FELICIANO.**

 

* * *

**PADUA**

**_at Roma's villa._ **

 

**_Enter_ ** **ROMA, IVAN _and_ LARS.**

 

Well, it seems we've reached a mutually beneficial agreement, Signore Vargas," said Ivan, shaking Roma's hand. "The contract!" he called, snapping his fingers for it.

                Lars dutifully wet a pen and offered it to Roma for signing.

                "Yes, indeed," Roma said, his wrist twisting as he produced a surprisingly artful signature. Then he called: "A toast! To the happy joining of our families, Herr Beilschmidt! And to you, young Ludwig, my boy,"  he added, clapping a paternal hand on Lars' broad shoulder, "I expect you to take good care of my sweet Feliciano. I won't hesitate to do away with you if I find out you've neglected or abused him in any way," he threatened.

                _Funny_ , Lars thought, accepting a goblet of wine from the Italian, _I didn't hear you making the same promise to the Spaniard when he dashed out with Lovino thrown over his shoulder_. He chose to ignore Roma's favouritism of Feliciano and focused, instead, on the marriage contract that had just been signed. Ludwig would be very pleased with it. It—and Feliciano—was worth a generous fortune. Lars had known this, of course, but he hadn't truly appreciated it until he saw the sums in writing. _Damn_ , _maybe I should have married Feliciano_ , he thought in retrospect. _Oh_ , _well. I couldn't be_ _happier for Ludwig_ (who was Lars' favourite blood-relative after his Danish cousin). _I hope they got away without any complications_. If everything had gone according to the plan, Ludwig and Feliciano would be on their way to St. Luke's Church now, where they would be secretly married. They would then spend the night in a hotel, which Ludwig had already organized, and then return to Padua on the morrow—wedded, bedded, and ready to face the repercussions of their lovesick actions. With luck, Roma would be pleased to greet the real Ludwig Beilschmidt and welcome him into his family just as heartily as he was doing with Lars right now.

                "To a long, healthy, fruitful marriage," said the Italian, raising his goblet to Lars.

                Lars and Ivan followed suit. "Here, here," they said in union, drinking.

                As they did, a valet sheepishly entered.

                "Ah!" said Roma, emptying his goblet. He licked his lips. "My Feliciano, where is he? I have excellent news to share with him!"

                "Oh, well, uh... you see, Signore..."

                Lars pitied the poor, sweating messenger. He would buy him a drink later for the inconvenience.

                "Well—? Out with it, man! Where is my grandson?"

                Finally, the timid valet took a deep breath, and cried: " _He's gone_!"

                Lars glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was half-past four o'clock in the afternoon, an hour since they had arrived at the Vargas home. _Well_ , _I bought you an hour_ , he acknowledged, stepping back to avoid Roma's outrage. As the patriarch charged out of the salon, red in the face and shouting for his absent grandson, Lars took the liberty of pouring himself and Ivan another goblet of wine. In a phantom-toast, he raised it to his gutsy cousin.

                _Good luck_ , _Lud._

 

**_Exit_ ** **ROMA, IVAN _and_ LARS.**


	10. Act IV Scene V

**PADUA**

**_a public place._ **

 

**_Enter_ ** **FRANCIS.**

 

Francis read Antonio's letter and sighed. It was not the quality that bothered him. Antonio was a rather eloquent writer for the bastard son of an illiterate actress; no, what bothered him was the content. Because of Feliciano's wedding, Antonio and Lovino were returning to Padua and would arrive in the early morning, and the Spaniard was expecting to be welcomed at Francis' summerhouse, because—after a fortnight in Venice—he had no money left to rent a hotel room. In the weeks between spiriting Lovino off to Venice and receiving the Italian's generous dowry, Antonio had eaten through his father's meager inheritance and was now, again, a penniless traveler. He would, of course, be accepting Lovino's dowry as soon as Feliciano was married, and Gilbert had already promised to reimburse him for all the expenses he had incurred, so the Spaniard's reunion with poverty wouldn't be for long, but Francis was sure that Antonio would still be disappointed when he arrived in Padua and discovered that Francis no longer owned a house there. Francis had decided—rather rashly—to leave Italy and never return, and, upon reflection of that fact, he realized that he would no longer be needing the house he had purchased for the sole purpose of impressing rich, young prospects. He had sold it fast and was now staying in the most expensive room of the most expensive hotel in town. After Feliciano's wedding tomorrow, he would leave Padua and return to Paris.

 

**_Enter_ ** **ARTHUR.**

 

                It was the hotel he was heading back to when he spotted the green-eyed Englishman, who was fast becoming familiar to him. He couldn't help but smile as he watched Arthur cross the street. He was dressed in a bright-coloured cloak that made his eyes sparkle in the sunlight. It was beautiful; _he_ was beautiful. And alone for once. He looked very preoccupied, but he stopped suddenly the moment he saw Francis. He stopped—in the middle of the street. Then he flinched when a carriage driver hollered rudely at him to "get the hell out of the way!" and he scrambled gracelessly to the side to avoid getting run-down. Francis chuckled and walked over to meet him.

                "Good-day, Mister Kirkland," he said, smiling.

                "Oh, yes, good-day, Monsieur Bonnefoi," Arthur replied, blushing in embarrassment. His gaze flicked from left-t0-right before finally settling on Francis.

                "No babies today?" he asked, trying to monopolize Arthur's attention.

                "Uh, no. They're with my brother today."

                "So, you're presently unattached—?" Francis enquired suggestively, struck by the sudden desire to prolong his engagement with the blushing Englishman. "Would you like to join me for a drink?"

                Arthur stepped back in reflex as he studied the brazen Frenchman (momentarily lost in the fathomless blue of his beautiful eyes). He hesitated, then finally said: "Yes," in a softer voice than intended. He cleared his throat and flippantly added: "I suppose I can spare an hour, or so. It would be my pleasure, Monsieur Bonnefoi."

                Francis offered Arthur his arm and escorted him into the hotel.

 

**_Exit_ ** **FRANCIS _and_ ARTHUR.**

 

* * *

**_on the road to Padua_ ** **.**

 

**_Enter_ ** **ANTONIO _and_ LOVINO.**

 

Ah, the moon is so beautiful today!" cried Antonio gleefully, shielding his eyes against the blinding midday sunlight. He grinned impishly and cast a teasing glance at Lovino. "Don't you think so, _chiquito_?"

                Lovino, who was perched in the saddle of his own mount, merely sighed in resignation. "Aren't we done with these stupid riddles yet... _my dearest_?" he added grudgingly.

                They had set out from Venice in the cool, dewy greyness of pre-dawn and had been riding ever since. Lovino had disliked being roused so early, but at least Antonio had splurged and purchased a horse for him to ride, so it was a less uncomfortable journey back to Padua, and much less silent than the journey to Venice had been. Since the break of dawn, Antonio had been babbling ceaselessly about anything, everything, and nothing. He talked _at_ Lovino more than _to_ him, since Lovino found it difficult enough to stay awake let alone concoct a reply. Not to mention, the topics that Antonio chose had all seemed utterly ridiculous until Lovino puzzled out what it was he was doing. _He's testing me_ , he realized, _he's testing my patience_ , _trying to get an explosive reaction out of me._ _Annoying bastard_. Lovino would have liked nothing better than to give Antonio a good tongue-lashing and tell him exactly where he and all of his foolish riddles could go, but he didn't want to risk it. Instead, he curbed his tongue and resolved not to give the Spaniard the satisfaction of goading him into a temper, and merely rode alongside his husband, silent and brooding. In his peripheral vision, he saw the green-eyed man grin in a rather self-satisfied way, but Lovino chose to ignored it. _If he wants to act like a child_ , _then let him. I won't be so easily provoked_ , he thought, feeling rather dignified. That is, until Antonio nudged him.

                "Tell me the moon is beautiful," he goaded, waving at the sun. He continued to nudge and poke until Lovino felt his face heat in anger. But he kept his temper.

                "I'll do no such thing," he said evenly, head held high. "It's a lie." _And you're a loon_.

                " _Ah_! Are you calling your dear husband a liar? _Oh_ , _Lovi_ , _I'm hurt_!" Antonio moaned, clutching his chest. The boy merely rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on now, _chiquito_ ," he continued, straightening. "Let's play a game, okay? It's a really fun one. It's called _Antonio Is Always Right_. Here, I'll start. I say: _The moon is so beautiful today_!" He pointed to the sun again. "And you say: _Yes_ , _my dearest_ , _it very much is. How clever you are_!"

                Lovino wrinkled his nose distastefully. "That's not even a real game. That's just you wanting me to agree with you, no matter how ridiculous you are. Well, I don't want to play. It's stupid."

                "No, it's not. It's practise."

                "Practise for what?"

                "Practise for Feliciano's wedding, of course!"

                Lovino frowned. He was about to ask how a game of lies related at all to his brother's wedding, when Antonio suddenly interrupted:

                "Let's try it again. I'll go," he said patiently, as if Lovino had only failed to understand the rules before. "My love, do you see that pretty young maiden on the roadside?"

 

**_Enter_ ** **HERR BEILSCHMIDT.**

 

                " _Maiden_?" Lovino repeated in disbelief. This time Antonio was pointing to a tall, broad, blonde gentleman of advanced years, as steely and weathered as an archaic warrior. He looked somehow... familiar, though Lovino couldn't decide why. His attention was not on the traveler, but on Antonio. "Please tell me you're kidding, _dearest_."

                To his horror, the Spaniard reigned his horse beside the formidable traveler, and cheerfully—loudly—said:

                "Good-day, fair maiden!"

                The traveler's ice-blue eyes swiveled like a beast's to meet Antonio, and Lovino felt a sudden chill run down his spine. _Well_ , _this marriage didn't last long_ , he thought, convinced of the Spaniard's immediate execution. Perhaps Antonio felt chilled, as well. Or at least that he had misjudged his comic victim, because he started to laugh nervously and waved innocently at his spouse in explanation, redirecting the traveler's attention.

                "A game, it's just a foolish game," he babbled in apology, trying—and failing—not to look intimidated by the larger man. "I meant no offense, good sir. I beg your forgiveness for any insult I may have unduly served."

                The traveler stared hard at Antonio, his big, blunt fist reaching beneath his cloak to rest on the pommel of a huge, elaborate broadsword.

                "Your father ought to flay you, you insolent boy," he said in a deep, slow voice. If iron could speak, it would sound like this man, Lovino thought. He shied away, leaning back in his saddle, yet needlessly. The blue-eyed warrior didn't even look at him. He was glaring at Antonio. Lovino would have laughed at the pale, repentant look on the Spaniard's face—he suddenly looked _very_ young compared to the blue-eyed man—if he, himself, was not so nervous. When the warrior raised a gloved hand, the Italian inadvertently flinched. However, the man was simply pointing to the highroad. "You are very fortunate, Spaniard, that I am lost," he said bluntly. "Show me the way to Padua and I will forgive you your plebeian manners."

                Antonio, who had immediately placed himself between the angry man and Lovino, said: "Padua? What luck, indeed! For we are also traveling to Padua, friend—uh, sir," he corrected quickly. "Please, accompany us."

                "I need a horse to ride. Mine fell lame miles back and I had to feed the poor beast a meal of metal," he said, patting his sword. "Give me yours," he ordered Antonio.

                "Oh, well perhaps you would consider, uh... yes, sir, of course."

                Reluctantly, Antonio dismounted beneath the unblinking eye of their new traveling companion, yielding his fine stallion to the man while he, instead, leapt up behind Lovino.

                "Respect," the man lectured sternly, "is not easily bought. Consider this a lesson, boy."

                Lovino felt Antonio's arm tighten around his waist, revealing the Spaniard's utter displeasure at the turn-of-events. Lovino could imagine him as a stubborn child glaring darkly back at the adults who had tried to lecture him to correct his behaviour. Antonio did not strike Lovino as the most patient of men when it came to discipline or social graces. As if on-cue, Antonio grit his teeth and said: "Yes, sir," as if he were being force-fed medicine.

                _He's not nearly as disguised as he thinks_ , Lovino thought. In a moment of weakness—or fright, perhaps—he rested his hand over his husband's and squeezed it reassuringly, feeling a touch endeared by the Spaniard's antics.

                The gesture of support seemed to calm Antonio, because his voice was much less strained when he said:

                "What business brings you to Padua, if I may ask, sir?"

                "My sons, Gilbert and Ludwig Beilschmidt; and my nephew, Lars van den Berg."

                _Ah ha_! Lovino privately celebrated. _I knew I recognized him somehow_! "Herr Beilschmidt—?" he guessed, speaking for the first time. The German patriarch glanced at him, not warmly, but less harshly than he had looked at Antonio; a subdued look reserved for polite company. Lovino instinctively leant back into Antonio's embrace. "I know of you, sir. My Grandpapa is Roma Vargas."

                Herr Beilschmidt lifted an eyebrow. "Yes, I know of him," he replied, unimpressed.

                Lovino felt a stab of offense, but he curbed the natural-instinct to retort back. Instead, he forced a charming smile and attempted to salvage the conversation by showing an interest in the German, who was—for all intents and purposes—a guest in his country. Besides, Antonio's offensive first-impression certainly hadn't helped the situation. No, it was up to Lovino to soothe the blue-eyed man's displeasure and introduce some semblance of companionship if they were to survive this journey unscathed. He cocked his head, feigning innocence, and said:

                "Are you traveling to Padua to attend the wedding, Herr Beilschmidt?"

                The German grunted. "What wedding?"

                _What wedding_ —? Lovino blinked. _Doesn't he know_? He cast a glance over-the-shoulder at Antonio, who was staring at the German with a quizzical look on his face.

                Lovino said: "Why, it's Ludwig Beilschmidt's wedding. He's marrying my younger brother, Feliciano Vargas. The wedding is tomorrow, sir."

                For a moment, Lovino thought that Herr Beilschmidt's head would explode in anger, but instead of heating like a volcano, like Roma did, the German's stark face paled in a cold, bloodless fury. In a slow, threatening tone that made Lovino shiver, he said:

                "Ludwig Beilschmidt is doing _what_?"

                "Uh, marrying my brother... sir."

                "Oh, he is, is he? Well," said the patriarch dangerously, "we'll see about that."

                As Herr Beilschmidt urged his mount into a gallop, dust clods flying up, Antonio leant down and whispered secretly in Lovino's ear: "I kind of get it, now."

                "Get what?" Lovino asked, confused.

                Antonio grinned. "Those two German brothers. I finally understand why they're like that—kind of scary." He made a horrified face. "I kind of get why neither of them is married. Don't you?"

                Unexpectedly, Lovino stifled a laugh. "Yes, actually, I do," he said, sharing the joke with his husband. Then a thought struck him, and a guilty yet pleased look crossed his face. "Oh, poor Feliciano," he said. "That man is going to be his father-in-law."

                He looked at Antonio, who was looking right back at him—and they both burst out laughing. Lovino laughed so hard that he wiped tears from his eyes. Antonio squeezed him affectionately.

                "Isn't the moon beautiful today, my love?" he said teasingly, kissing Lovino's cheek.

                Lovino rolled his eyes and gave in: "Yes, my dearest, it is."

 

**_Exit_ ** **ANTONIO, LOVINO _and_ HERR BEILSCHMIDT.**

 

* * *

**PADUA**

**_at the hotel._ **

 

**_Enter_ ** **FRANCIS _and_ ARTHUR.**

 

Francis awoke drowsily in the early morning to find his nose buried in a pillow of soft, sweet-scented wheat-blonde hair; his arms loosely wrapped around a slender, freckled figure, holding him front to back. He blinked, his eyelashes fluttering, and then sighed in sleepy contentment and hugged Arthur closer. The Englishman fit comfortably against the Frenchman's sculpted body, their naked limbs lazily entangled. Briefly Francis wondered what time it was, and—even briefer—if Antonio had found a place to spend the night, but it was silenced by the sight and sound (and feel) of Arthur rousing. The Englishman arched his shoulders and nosed his pillow, head bowed, before moaning softly as he slowly regained consciousness. For a moment, he merely shifted into the cocoon of body-heat they shared, before his bright Lincoln-green eyes opened.

                " _Bonjour_ ," Francis mumbled, nearly nose-to-nose with his groggy bedmate.

                Arthur produced a sleepy sigh in reply. He glanced at the window, and regrettably said: "I need to go."

                Francis squeezed Arthur as he tried to rise, preventing him from doing so. "Don't hurry off," he said, smiling mischievously. "Stay and have breakfast with me."

                "No, I can't," said Arthur. "I need to return to my children."

                Francis sighed, but released the Englishman. "Yes, alright," he agreed. He rolled onto his back and watched Arthur get dressed. He looked even lovelier in the daylight. The way his slender body twisted, misleadingly delicate, made Francis want to pull him back into bed, but he resisted. Arthur might have yielded to Francis' charms last night, but the determined look on his face warned Francis not to distract him now. Even so, his pale skin was flushed and showed evidence of their amorous nocturnal activities. Arthur was aware of it too, and took especial care to button his collar over a ripe, red love-bite. Francis grinned privately, feeling uncharacteristically possessive. It wasn't in his aloof nature to be jealous of his lovers' prior or succeeding relationships, but he felt a pang of regret when he thought of anyone else touching the young Englishman as he had. He mentally scolded himself. Arthur was hardly a virgin, after all. Perhaps he was only jealous of the man's other lovers' sexual performance, though he needn't be. If there was one aspect of Francis Bonnefoi's credibility that had never been called into dispute, it was his undeniable sexual prowess. Arthur _might_ have experienced such skillful lovers before—but doubtful. He certainly hadn't been thinking of anyone else last night. Neither had Francis.

                "Why are you grinning at me?" Arthur asked, looking skeptically at Francis.

                Francis merely shrugged. "You're very beautiful," he said smoothly.

                Arthur's eyes narrowed, but he didn't question it. He finished lacing his boots and stood. Francis could sense he was about to leave and wanted to prolong it, so he offhandedly asked about Arthur's brother. Why was he visiting?

                "He's not visiting," Arthur corrected. "He's come to take the boys and I back to England."

                At that, Francis sat up, the bed-sheets pooling at his waist. "England? But... don't you live here in Italy?"

                "My late-husband is dead," said Arthur flatly. "He's been dead for over a year. It's time for me to go home. I don't belong here... and neither do my boys," he added quietly.

                Francis didn't pry, despite his curiosity. The more he got to know Arthur, the more he subscribed to Gilbert's theory that the twins' father was not Italian.

                "At least let me give you a ride to your house," he offered, rising now as well.

                Arthur shook his head impatiently. "No, no, it's quite alright. I can walk, it's not far—"

                "I want to," Francis interrupted, tugging on his trousers.

                The Frenchman hired a carriage—ignoring Arthur's protest: "I can hire my own carriage."—and insisted on accompanying the Englishman approximately five blocks down the street to a large villa with a picturesque view of the harbour. "This is your house?" he asked, impressed by its subtle beauty. Secretly, he had imagined Arthur living in a crumbling tower with sharp spires and fog pouring from an iron-black cauldron on the roof. He blamed Gilbert for that image.

                "It's my late-husband's house," Arthur corrected, again. "Everything I have here was his. His house; his staff; his carriage; his horses; his money," he said tonelessly.

                Francis noted that he did not include Alfred and Matthew in that list.

                "Will I see you again before you leave?" he asked nonchalantly, trying to hide his eagerness; his trepidation.

                "Perhaps," Arthur vaguely replied. "Are you attending Feliciano Vargas' wedding tonight?"

                "Yes, are you?"

                "Yes."

                Francis smiled privately as he offered Arthur a hand out of the carriage, which the Englishman ignored. But the Frenchman wasn't discouraged by the subtle dismissal. Before Arthur could escape, Francis grabbed his hand and, when Arthur turned around in surprise, pressed a flirtatious kiss to his knuckles. "I'll see you tonight then, _chéri_ ," he said, blue eyes sparkling.

                "Oh, y-yes," Arthur agreed, trying and failing to look unbothered.

                He was halfway to the front door when it suddenly flew open, revealing two nearly identical children.

 

**_Enter_ ** **ALFRED _and_ MATTHEW.**

 

                The twins leapt out, still dressed in their bedclothes from the previous night, their bedraggled blonde hair bouncing cutely. "Daddy! Daddy!" they cried excitedly. "Uncle Scottie, um—um—guess what Uncle Scottie let us do?" Alfred stuttered eagerly, wanting to regale his father with the night's adventures. He paused briefly as Arthur knelt to embrace and kiss them both. That's when Alfred spotted Francis. "Daddy!" he whispered loudly and pointed. "It's the handsome man!"

                This time, Arthur just rolled his eyes. "Yes, love," he said in exasperation.

                "Hello, Mister Frenchman!" Alfred called, waving.

                Francis inclined his head politely, as if addressing a gentleman of equal status. Alfred beamed at the adult acknowledgement. In contrast, Matthew smiled shyly at him.

                Francis said: "Will you be attending the wedding, too, _chéris_?"

                "Yes!" replied Alfred.

                " _C'est magnifique_! I'll save you both a dance." Francis winked; the boys giggled.

                "Oh, save one for Daddy, too," Alfred begged, tugging on Arthur's trouser-leg as if Francis didn't know which one Arthur was. "I don't want Daddy to be lonely."

                "Nor do I," Francis agreed, meeting Arthur's gaze. A silent, charged exchange passed between them, and the besotted Frenchman couldn't help but smile. Arthur's vibrant green eyes returned the smile, even if his lips did not. His look was tender in a way that Francis hadn't ever seen before and he liked it. A lot. Cordially, he bowed his head in a mock-proposal. "Mister Kirkland?" he enquired, playing for the boys' benefit. "I hope that you'll share a dance with me tonight—?"

                Again, Arthur rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide his amusement. "Yes, Monsieur Bonnefoi," he said, herding the boys back inside. At the threshold he paused and cast a suggestive glance back over-the-shoulder. "I look forward to it."

 

**_Exit_ ** **FRANCIS, ARTHUR, ALFRED _and_ MATTHEW.**


	11. Act V Scene I

**PADUA**

**_at Roma's villa._ **

**_Enter_ ** **GILBERT.**

 

Gilbert Beilschmidt was upset. No— _upset_ was too mild a word. He was angry; livid; enraged; infuriated. He felt his already high blood-pressure boil beneath the surface of his skin, flushing his spectral pallor like strawberry syrup on cream. Late last night, he had received an invitation to a wedding celebrating the union of his younger brother and the Italian boy, whom he, himself, had been pursuing for over a month. At first, Gilbert had thought that it was a misprint. Then his memory began a reel of the past few weeks and he cursed himself for being tricked. In his defense, he never would have thought Ludwig capable of double-crossing him, but that appears to be what happened.

                "Ludwig, you dirty, lying cheat!" he growled, crunching the flowery invitation in his fist. In a bout of rage, he cast it into the blazing hearth. He had never felt so betrayed in his life. Ludwig—his brother!—had stolen the object of Gilbert's, uh... desire; the boy whom he, uh... felt moderately attracted to; he boy he... Well, the boy was very rich and beautiful, of course, but upon reflection Gilbert could admit that he didn't actually _know_ Feliciano that well... or, at all really. He had thought the boy so sweet and innocent before, but now...

                _If he's been sneaking around with Ludwig this whole time_ , _then maybe he's not as innocent as I thought. If he's chosen to wed Ludwig_ , _then maybe I never stood a chance in the first place. Maybe I've done nothing but make a fool of myself and my house. And those flighty Italians let me_! _I bet they laughed at me_! _Curse them_!

                Gilbert sighed deeply. He was standing at the Vargas' front door, his fist raised to knock, but he froze. He had stormed over to demand an explanation of Roma, feeling slighted by the Italian patriarch, but suddenly he felt foolish. His heart felt heavy, an uncomfortable—unfamiliar—feeling.

                Did he really want to marry a boy who obviously didn't want him?

                In all of his twenty-five years, Gilbert had honestly never considered the concept of love as being important. Love for one's family and country, yes; but love for one's spouse? It hardly mattered. As long as his spouse was proper and obedient and produced lots of healthy heirs, love was unnecessary. A mutual-affection was more than enough to live with. Plenty of rich, powerful couples simply despised each other and they were still successful. And _that's_ what mattered, wasn't it? The prosperity and future security of the Beilschmidt family was Gilbert's priority, not the happiness of one sixteen-year-old boy. And yet...

                _If that's true_ , _then why do I feel like I just got sucker-punched_?

                By the time he knocked on the door Gilbert's temper had cooled. If Feliciano had chosen to wed Ludwig, then it was done and complaining to Roma like a spoiled child would do nothing but hurt Gilbert's pride. Simply put, he had lost. All there was left to do was to accept it gracefully and congratulate Feliciano... and then have a nice little brotherly chat with Ludwig about backstabbing bastards.

                "I'm here to request an audience with Signore Vargas," he told the footman. He might as well grit his teeth and get the flattery over with now that he was here.

                The footman bowed him inside and promptly escorted him to the rose garden—

 

**_Enter_ ** **ROMA, IVAN ( _as Herr Beilschmidt_ ), _and_ LARS ( _as Ludwig_ ).**

 

                —where Roma was entertaining Lars as well as a rather large, pale-haired gentleman with an unnerving grin. Or rather, _they_ seemed to be trying to entertain him; or perhaps _consoling_ him was a better description of Lars' feeble efforts. Roma looked positively forlorn.

                Gilbert blinked.

                "Ah, there is the other Herr Beilschmidt junior!" called Roma, spotting Gilbert. He waved a hand flippantly. (He was deep in his cups by then.) "Heard the news, have you? Come to pay your condolences, my boy?"

                "I— _Huh_?" As he neared the party, Gilbert noticed Lars' expression change. His sage-green eyes widened and he gave a discrete shake of his head, warning Gilbert not to dispute the Italian's mistake, but the elder ignored him. "What's going on?" he asked bluntly, glancing from face-to-face. He gestured to the large stranger, and added: "Who's this?"

                "Who, indeed!" Roma laughed, red-cheeked. He swayed in his seat. "You would make a fine jester, younger Beilschmidt! A _fine_ jester! Who?" he bubbled. "Why, it is your father, of course! He's come for the wedding! Alas! It is all for naught, for my sweet Feliciano has vanished! _Vanished_!"

                Gilbert stiffened. Roma carried-on, but the German had stopped listening after the word _father_. He looked at the big, violet-eyed man skeptically, then captured Lars with a piercing glare. "My Vater—?" he repeated slowly.

                "Yes, yes," Roma waved in dismissal, "Ludwig has already made his introductions."

                "Yes, I'm sure he has," Gilbert said, glaring at Lars. "Say, _Ludwig—_? May I have a word with you in private?"

                "Actually, I was just about to— _Ah_ , yes, okay then," he grunted as Gilbert seized his collar.

                Impatiently, Gilbert hauled Lars indelicately to his feet. "If you'll just excuse us a moment, Signore Vargas," he said, marching Lars away. Once a suitable distance had been achieved, he stopped, turned on Lars, and snapped:

                " _What the fuck_?"

                "Okay, you're upset," Lars acknowledged, raising his hands defensively, like a beast-tamer.

                "You're fucking right I'm upset! You lied to me!" Gilbert growled. "You lied to Roma, to everyone! Did you lie to Feliciano, too? Just which _Ludwig_ is he supposed to marry, you or my brother? And where is he anyway? Ludwig, I mean. One of you is supposed to get married tonight, but the boy is gone—? Is that true? Where _is_ Ludwig? And who in hell is _that man_?" he stabbed a finger at Ivan. " _What the fuck did you do_?"

                "Gilbert," said Lars soothingly, "mind your blood-pressure, cousin. I can explain—" he began, but suddenly a herald's voice interrupted.

                Loudly, the servant announced to the entire garden: " _Presenting Señor Carriedo and Signore Vargas_ , _and his esteemed sir_ , _Herr Beilschmidt_!"

 

**_Enter_ ** **ANTONIO, LOVINO _and_ HERR BEILSCHMIDT.**

 

                Gilbert turned to look slowly, wide-eyed, like someone surveying the carnage of a battlefield. Waltzing along the promenade was the mad Spaniard, a characteristic giddy grin on his face, with Lovino clasping his arm, jogging to keep pace. Antonio hollered a greeting to the party, which Gilbert didn't acknowledge. He was too focused on the formidable man proceeding them, marching toward the party like a warhorse fearlessly charging at the enemy-line. It was Herr Beilschmidt Senior. His father.

                Gilbert swallowed trepidation. He felt all of his anger transform into pity as he glanced bleakly at Lars, who suddenly looked sick.

                "Start running," he advised.

 

* * *

Antonio wasn't quite sure what game he and Lovino had interrupted, but he counted himself fortunate to witness the breaking-point. Herr Beilschmidt's appearance seemed to have a sobering effect on the entire party (everyone except Roma Vargas, that is).

                " _Imposter_!" he thundered, making Lovino flinch at Antonio's side. The angry German patriarch was pointing to Roma's big, violet-eyed guest; a man whom Antonio had never seen before. The man—the noted _imposter_ —merely blinked at Herr Beilschmidt in curiosity as he and Roma stood to meet the accusation. Roma, whose face was cherry-red and bleary-eyed, managed a foggy introduction, which the German violently silenced:

                "That man is _not_ Herr Beilschmidt! _I_ am Herr Beilschmidt, you daft old Italian!"

                Roma frowned, his wine-heavy brain struggling to process the other's words. "Now, see here you—you—you _brute_! How dare you insult me in my own house! I think I know the identity of my own guests, thank-you. This is the esteemed Herr Beilschmidt," he said, gesturing to Ivan. Ivan grinned. "It is you, I think, who is the imposter, sir. You are nothing but a—a—a _beggar_! Just look at your clothes, disgraceful! You have come to steal my fortune, haven't you, you—you—you _Germanic barbarian_!"

                Antonio was grinning like a fool, enjoying the back-and-forth. Gilbert and Lars, however, looked pale enough to faint.

                Herr Beilschmidt's icy eyes blazed and his hands curled into fists at his sides, itching to draw his sword and avenge the drunk man's slight. Instead, he retained his temper and snapped: " _Gilbert_!" Gilbert flinched. " _Kommen Sie bitte hier_!"

                The younger Beilschmidt leapt to attention so fast, Antonio snorted. It was rather amusing to see the cocky, self-entitled German heir reduced to a quivering, white-faced vessel of nerves, like a puppy prepared for a scolding; ears flat back, tail between his legs. " _Ja_ , _Vater_ ," he said, averting his gaze and bowing his head. Antonio wondered if it was respect or fear that permeated Gilbert's submissive tone.

                "Gilbert," said his father sternly, "tell me what is going on." He addressed Gilbert directly, but he spoke in a common-language, inviting anyone to reply.

                "I-I—I honestly don't know, sir," Gilbert stuttered. "I had nothing to do with it. I don't have the faintest idea who that imposter is, sir."

                "Look at me," Herr Beilschmidt ordered. Obediently, Gilbert raised his head and met the frosty, ice-blue gaze of his father. To his credit, he didn't blink or look away; though, Antonio thought he was holding his breath. He stood statuesque until his father's tone commanded otherwise. "Yes," he said, "I believe you, Gilbert." In acknowledgement, he momentarily rested his hand on Gilbert's silver-white head, as if to say: _Well done_ , _son_.

                Gilbert visibly relaxed, like a diver finally breeching the surface for air.

                _Good dog_ , Antonio put derivative words to the exchange. For a minute, he actually felt sympathy for Gilbert. Then he glanced at Roma, and he honestly couldn't decide which parenting tact was worse: Roma's favouritism and over-indulgence of one child, while neglecting the other; or Herr Beilschmidt's dominance and high-expectations, which was a fear-inducing tactic more akin to training soldiers—or dogs—than raising children. Antonio found that he pitied the Beilschmidt brothers their stolen childhood almost as much as he pitied Lovino's for its loneliness, and was glad for the first time that his own negligent late-father had not been an overbearing presence in his life.

                _I won't be like that_ , he thought. _I'll never hurt my children like that. I'll never rule my household by fear. I'll never manipulate my family. I'll never break their spirits_ —

                _But you already have_ , whispered a voice in his head.

                Antonio looked down at Lovino, shocked by the unflattering self-reflection. Lovino was nestled beneath his arm, the boy's gold-flecked eyes huge as he watched the scene unfold. He looked very young and fragile just then, not at all the sharp-tongued spitfire he had been only weeks ago. The transformation looked so complete that it was—sad.

                _I did it_ , Antonio thought, but there was no satisfaction in the victory. _I broke Lovino Vargas_.

                Feeling suddenly hollow, he looked up at the competing figures of plotting Roma Vargas and iron-fisted Herr Beilschmidt, and when he saw the horrible picture of his future, he nearly choked.

                "Where is your brother?" Herr Beilschmidt asked Gilbert.

                "I don't know, sir."

                " _You don't know_?"

                The accusation cut Gilbert like a blow. Stiffly, he repeated: "No, I don't know, sir."

                "Now, wait just a minute," interrupted Roma, confused.  "Ludwig Beilschmidt is there." He pointed to Lars, who did not look pleased to be singled-out.

                Herr Beilschmidt glanced at his nephew, and then sighed deeply, frustrated by the Italian's apparent idiocy. "You," he said to Roma," need to have your eyes checked, you drunk old fool. _I_ am Herr Beilschmidt, and _that_ is my nephew, Lars van den Berg—who I'll get to in a minute," he threatened, stabbing Lars with a glare. "But first I want to know the whereabouts of my son, Ludwig."

                "But—but—but—" sputtered Roma, his face reddening in surmounting anger. He did not like being tricked. "If you're not Ludwig," he shouted at Lars, "then who in hell is marrying my—

                —" _Feliciano_!"

 

* * *

**_Enter_ ** **LUDWIG _and_ FELICIANO.**

 

Feliciano froze, half-submerged by shrubbery. He had not expected anyone to be in the rose garden as he and Ludwig snuck back inside. Quickly, he tried to retreat, but Ludwig was behind him and, thinking that his newlywed spouse was stuck, pushed him helpfully forward before emerging, himself. Feliciano stumbled for a couple of steps, his arms flapping foolishly before he caught his balance. Then he lifted his flushed face to the incredulity of everyone present.

                "Oh, uh... _Ciao_ ," he smiled nervously.

                In shock, Roma opened his mouth to reply, but the thundering of Herr Beilschmidt drowned out his voice:

                " _Ludwig_!"

                Overhead, Feliciano heard Ludwig curse in German.

                " _Ja_ , _Vater_ ," he said, placing a supportive hand on Feliciano; support for the boy or himself, Feliciano didn't know.

                Herr Beilschmidt brushed past Roma and stalked toward the newlywed couple. Feliciano tried to escape; his father-in-law towered menacingly over him, ice-blues eyes peering out from a sharp-featured face not unlike Gilbert's. Ludwig held his ground, but the pressure on Feliciano's shoulder increased. _What am I_ , _a human-shield_? Feliciano thought indignantly. Prying himself free, he dodged out of Ludwig's grasp and retreated to a safe distance away from the line-of-fire. Ludwig cast a look of fleeting helplessness at him, eyes narrowed as if to say: _Coward_.

                "Ludwig, explain yourself," Herr Beilschmidt ordered.

                "Yes, indeed!" said Roma, joining the interrogation. He took Feliciano's hand and rubbed it in a paternal way that revealed his relief. Feliciano relaxed, confident of Roma's protection. "If you are the real Ludwig Beilschmidt then you have lied to me, boy! Have you lied to my Feliciano, too? Tell me!" he demanded. "What is the meaning of all this? Did you abduct my sweet grandson? And you!" He threw a sideways glare at Lars. "You scoundrel!"

                "Speak," said the German testily to his son.

                "I'm truly sorry for lying, Vater." Ludwig bowed his head, but Herr Beilschmidt was not satisfied. He planted a large hand on his son's shoulder and forced him shamefully to his knees. "But," Ludwig continued bravely, "I'm not sorry for what I did or why I did it. I'm in love with Feliciano Vargas," he declared, going scarlet in embarrassment. "And I married him. As of yesterday, Feliciano is my legally-wedded spouse."

                "Legally—? There is nothing legal about what you did, you fiend!" cried Roma. "You stole my Feliciano away! You tricked him, you must have! I did not agree to this union!"

                "Actually," said Ludwig delicately, "you did. You signed a contract agreeing to the marital union of Feliciano Vargas and Ludwig Beilschmidt."

                When Roma merely blinked, Ludwig pointed to Lars and Ivan; Ivan, who waved pleasantly. In that moment, Roma's face turned un unhealthy beetroot-purple.

                "It is done, then?" asked Herr Beilschmidt coldly.

                "Yes," answered Ludwig.

                Herr Beilschmidt was stone-silent for a long minute, then he exhaled. "Fine," he said soberly. "I cannot undo what has been sanctified by God. However," he added, reprimanding, " _this_ is not the spouse I would have chosen for you, my son. You could have done _much_ better."

                Both Roma and Feliciano scoffed in insult. "Excuse me!" said Roma, affronted. "My Feliciano is a prize!" he insisted. "Why, ask anyone here! He's the most beautiful and virtuous boy in all Padua! I defy you to claim otherwise!"

                "Beautiful, yes," Herr Beilschmidt allowed, "but virtuous—? Ha! Don't make me laugh, Vargas. That boy lied to you and eloped with a man whom he's barely acquainted with, leaving his whole family to worry. And he's not even ashamed of it. Look at him, such impudence! Had I known you would choose such a spouse, I would never have sent you to Italy unescorted," he said to Ludwig. "I never would have given you permission to marry _this_ boy. But if you're so infatuated with Italy, I might have agreed to let you marry _that_ one."

                Ludwig's head swivelled. So did everyone else's; then their jaws dropped.

                Herr Beilschmidt was pointing to Lovino.

 

* * *

Lovino felt everyone's eyes land on him simultaneously. He felt Antonio stiffen.

                Gilbert was the first to speak. "Are you _kidding_? Sir," he hastily added.

                Herr Beilschmidt squared his broad shoulders. "I don't kid, Gilbert. I assure you, I'm very serious. That boy," he indicated blushing Lovino, "is the epitome of a dutiful spouse. He is quiet and polite and obedient and unfailingly loyal to his husband, however uncivilized the Spaniard may be. He is the only Italian I've met who has acted with even a shred of decorum or dignity. One needs only to observe how he stands there at his husband's side. There is respect." He nodded in approval.

                "No, no," corrected Roma, parading Feliciano forward to display. "I think you are misinformed, sir. Feliciano is the good one; Lovino is... uh, that is... He's also very beautiful, but..."

                "I care less for beauty than for virtue," said Herr Beilschmidt sternly, "and that boy, Lovino, has more virtue than any of you. He has an honest face." Again, he nodded.

                An outcry of disagreement erupted. "Now wait just a moment—!" they said, but Lovino stopped listening. He looked skeptically up at Antonio, only to find the Spaniard staring blatantly at the German, looking both shocked and oddly unsettled. The intensity of his green eyes revealed a hint of internal struggle, though Lovino didn't understand why. Antonio was fearlessness incarnate. Or, that's the reputation he had yet earned, but perhaps there was a depth to him that he kept hidden. A secret weakness. Dare he even say—vulnerability? Antonio's facade was well-crafted, but Lovino _had_ seen cracks of kindness in it before. In the rare moments when Antonio was taken by surprise, he revealed his youth and uncertainty. It was the face of a man who was lost in the world, which is precisely how he looked now. It was, admittedly, Lovino's favourite of his husband's many faces.

                " _Insult_!" Roma continued to holler. He raised his fists, determined to avenge the slight to Feliciano's honour. " _Come back here and fight me like a man_ , _you blue-eyed snake_!"

                Ignoring Roma, Herr Beilschmidt crossed the rose garden to where Antonio and Lovino were standing. "You are nothing short of a spoiled, undisciplined brat, Spaniard, but you have the great fortune of an honourable spouse."

                "Uh... yes, thank-you. I think so, too," Antonio said hesitantly. "If you'll just excuse us," he added, green eyes surveying the scorned faces of his fellows as he gently guided Lovino backwards in retreat, shielding the boy with his body. "Lovino and I need to prepare for tonight's festivities. That is, if there's still to be a wedding—? Or, at the very least, a wedding reception?"

                Roma exhaled a puff of compressed anger and threw his hands up in defeat. "Oh! Why not?" he crowed. "The arrangements have already been made. What's done is done." He glanced menacingly at Ludwig. "I suppose I _did_ give consent to the marriage. So, if Feliciano doesn't object to it—?" He looked hopefully at his grandson, who shook his auburn head and smiled sweetly. Roma sighed. "Then nothing changes, the contract stands," he finished. "Ludwig, my boy... Congratulations."

                Ludwig bowed in acceptance. "Thank-you, sir."

                "I suppose the only thing left to do is transfer Lovino and Feliciano's dowries to their respective husbands."

                Antonio had started to lead Lovino out, hoping for a discrete exit, but he stopped sharply when he heard the words _transfer_ and _dowries_ , like a dragon smelling gold.

                Lovino sighed. The kind-hearted youth was gone; the fortune-hunter was back. Suddenly, the boy felt weary and wanted nothing more than a cold drink and a hot bath; a change of clothes; and a long, undisturbed nap. He was, however, pleased that he and his husband would soon be restored to a wealthy status befitting Lovino's noble blood. He had thoroughly disliked the time he had endured in poverty and vowed to never again re-live the unpleasant experience. He was, in truth, much too proud a boy to live humbly.

                "Oh, Gilbert!" called Antonio, as the party dispersed.

                Gilbert paused and cocked a silver-white eyebrow at the Spaniard. He, too, looked tired.

                "I believe that you and I had an accord," Antonio grinned, pressing a leather parcel into the German's hand.

                Curiously, Gilbert unbound it and pulled out a handful of pricy bills. His wine-red eyes went from befuddled to irate to resigned in the span of a single breath. "Oh," he said unenthusiastically, "right."

                "Antonio, what is all of that?" Lovino enquired.

                Antonio's grin grew—if possible—even wider. "It's the bills for our honeymoon, _chiquito_. You see, Gilbert was kind enough to finance the whole thing: the house, the furnishings, the food, the horses. You have Gilbert to thank for all of it. Isn't that right, Herr Beilschmidt?"

                Gilbert's jaw clenched as he read the expenses.

                "Go on," chided Antonio playfully. "Say thank-you, _chiquito_."

                "Thank-you," said Lovino, still confused.

                Gilbert sighed and rolled his eyes. "You're welcome, Lovino. Toni," he said, clapping the Spaniard's shoulder in a fraternal way, "well played." Antonio inclined his head, mock-gracious. "I just have one teeny-tiny little question," Gilbert added, drawing Antonio closer; so close that the German's lips nearly touched the Spaniard's ear when he said (shouted):

                " _You spent a goddamned fortune on tomatoes_!"

                Antonio cringed at the irate volume. Then he smiled innocently, and said: "That's not technically a question."

                Lovino shook his head, muttered "idiot", and then swiftly walked away before anyone could see him smile.


	12. Act V Scene II

**PADUA**

**_at Roma's villa._ **

 

**_Enter_ ** **ROMA, HERR BEILSCHMIDT, LUDWIG, FELICIANO, GILBERT, LARS, IVAN, ANTONIO, LOVINO, FRANCIS, ARTHUR, ALFRED _and_ MATTHEW.**

 

Francis laughed as he spun two giggling five-year-olds across the dance-floor, one tiny hand tightly clasping each of his. His steps were light and carefree and he didn't even notice how the other dancers gave he and the unruly children a wide berth; nor how loud they were; nor how the other guests whispered and shook their heads in ridicule. Francis didn't notice—or care about—any of it. He was having fun. When he lifted Alfred off his feet to avoid a perturbed-looking couple, swinging the boy around in a circle, Alfred shrieked happily and shouted: "Again! Again!" and Francis' heart swelled. In reply, he scooped Matthew up into his arms and began twirling around in haphazard circles, letting Alfred clutch his hand with both of his as he swung the boy around. Alfred's flushed face made his eyes look dazzlingly blue and big as saucers. Matthew clutched Francis' neck, perched safely in the Frenchman's arms. He laughed at his brother and absently rested his curly head against Francis'. Francis turned to smile at the shy boy and spontaneously pressed a paternal kiss to his temple, as if he really was Matthew's father.

                Yes, others scorned the raucous trio from afar, but Francis didn't notice. His focus was solely on the twins—and their green-eyed father, whom the Frenchman kept seeing in his peripheral vision. Arthur was standing near the exit, engaged in conversation with a tall gentleman not nearly as handsome as Francis (in Francis' opinion).

                "Again! Again!" pleaded Alfred, tugging on Francis' hand.

                Francis freed his hand and rested it gently on Alfred's golden head. "Later, _chéri_. I don't have the head for spinning like you do. If we continue, I'm liable to topple over." Indeed, he felt dizzy. He set Matthew down before he lost his balance. "Go on and dance. I'll stay close by," he added for Matthew's benefit. Matthew was a timid child who feared the feast hall's unfriendly adult guests; besides which, Alfred was likely to run off—again—if left unsupervised.

                Francis watched with a tender heart as Alfred tugged his twin brother back onto the dance-floor and began rocking back-and-forth in a clumsy imitation of the other couples. Once, he caught Feliciano's eye. The young Italian smiled and winked at the twins, inviting them to follow his and Ludwig's steps. Francis watched Feliciano as he moved gracefully in Ludwig's arms, but he didn't react. He didn't feel envy or scorn or betrayal. He didn't feel anything, and it surprised him. Maybe it was because Feliciano and Ludwig looked so happy together, and Francis—a lover of love—wouldn't dream of breaking it. Or, maybe it was simply because he had never truly been in love with Feliciano at all.

                Maybe it was because he had accidentally fallen in love with someone else.

                His blue eyes flicked again to Arthur, who was politely declining a dance from the tall gentleman. The man goaded, but Arthur was obstinate. Had he been younger, or of a more sensitive disposition Francis might have felt the need to swoop in and rescue the prey from the predator's unwanted attention, but he needn't worry about Arthur. The Englishman didn't need a shining knight to rescue him. Arthur Kirkland could take care of himself. At least whereas fortune-hunting suitors were concerned.

                Francis had never been of that breed. He was independently wealthy— _very_ wealthy. Even when he had been interested in courting Feliciano, the boy's fortune had never been a factor. It was the game, itself. The hunt was what Francis enjoyed; the coaxing and courting and all of the rewards that followed. But it was short-lived. Once the prize had been obtained, Francis always found it increasingly difficult to stay interested. Antonio said that he had a short attention-span; maybe he did. Now that Feliciano was wed, Francis couldn't remember why he had found the boy so alluring in the first place. He supposed that he ought to be grateful for Ludwig's conniving interference. Francis would have hated to lose interest in his spouse after bedding him once. There was only one person whom the Frenchman still craved after bedding, and that person was Arthur. He didn't know why, but nor did he care. The truth was simple: the more time he spent with the Englishman, the more time he _wanted_ to spend with him.

                The twins' giggles drew his attention. Matthew had relaxed and was letting Alfred wobble them both across the centre of the dance-floor, cutting off other dancers. As they passed beneath a chandelier, Francis caught sight of Matthew's neck, left bare by the ribbon withholding his curls, and his sunny expression darkened. A jagged white scar cut into the back of Matthew's neck, just below his right ear. Francis didn't need to ask where it had come from. He could hear Gilbert's words echo in his memory:

                " _Then one day the fucking bastard went after the twins instead_."

                Francis clenched his jaw and his fists, and in that moment he knew exactly what he was going to do. He knew what his heart wanted him to do, which was to protect Arthur Kirkland and his babies in every way he possibly could. He wanted to be their shield, their support. He wanted to patch the hole that Arthur's first marriage had ripped apart. He wanted to return what had been stolen from the most precious little family he had ever met.

                Deliberately, Francis strode to where Arthur stood. He didn't hesitate; he didn't doubt. Brazenly, he inserted himself and interrupted the tall gentleman mid-sentence, and he asked Arthur for a dance.

                If Arthur took offense to the bluntness, he didn't show it. His eyes slid snake-like from the tall gentleman to Francis, as if appraising them both, goading a challenge. That was when Francis realized that Arthur was teasing him, testing him for jealousy or greed or a short-temper.

                Francis merely smiled and politely extended his hand, waiting for Arthur to accept, confident that he would.

                _I'm not him_ , he conveyed, reading fear in Arthur's green eyes. They flicked quickly—nervously—to his sons and back, but Francis' gaze was steady. _I'm not going to hurt you_ , _or them. I promise._

                "Excuse me, won't you?" said Arthur without looking at the affronted tall gentleman. He took Francis' hand.

                Francis led Arthur onto the dance-floor slowly, savouring every step, every feather-soft touch. He rested one hand gently on the Englishman's narrow hip and clasped the other in his. Arthur's hands were fine-boned, but strong. The contours of their hands seemed to meld together as a new dance began; Arthur's, pale and delicate; Francis', tan and long-fingered. As they moved, their linked hands tightened simultaneously. Arthur was a clumsy dancer at best, but Francis didn't mind, confident that his practised steps could make anyone look graceful. They swayed from left-to-right as they moved in a slow circle across the dance-floor, bodies returning closer each time the dance demanded they momentarily part. Francis extended his arm and Arthur stepped back, as required, but that was where etiquette ended. Francis pulled Arthur back to him with more force than necessary and when they re-connected he wrapped his arm intimately around Arthur's waist, pressing their chests together. Arthur emitted a quiet gasp, which sent an eager shiver down Francis' spine. He liked the feel of Arthur's body in his arms and communicated that fact by holding him much closer than what politeness dictated—not that Arthur seemed to mind. The Englishman's hand slid suggestively from Francis' elbow to his shoulder, then his neck. His fingers curled around the back of the Frenchman's neck and rested comfortably there, as if gently massaging a dance-partner's neck were the norm. He leant into Francis' body, and Francis gladly took his weight. They had nearly stopped moving, now, their connected figures merely swaying on the edge of the dance-floor in the shadows. Francis looked into Arthur's eyes—he couldn't look away—and whispered the Englishman's name:

                " _Arthur_."

                A soft smile curled Arthur's lips. When he looked back at Francis, Lincoln-green eyes staring fearlessly into sapphire-blue, Francis' chest tightened. And he knew, then and there.

                "I love you," he said, words spilling from his velvety lips without a second thought. "Marry me."

                Arthur's expression barely changed. To a bystander, he might have looked mildly bemused by the proposal, but Francis saw deeper. He saw Arthur's skin flush; he saw his lips twitch, fighting a smile; he saw his eyes twinkle.

                "Okay," he said simply.

 

* * *

Gilbert saw Francis lead the widowed Englishman in an intimately slow dance; he saw them connect closer and closer, bodies pressed together—like sex on the dance-floor—eyes seeing nothing but each other; he saw them melt back into the shadows of an alcove; and he saw their lips meet, Francis swooping in to kiss Arthur in a way unbefitting a public scene. That was when the secretly bashful German looked away, feeling affronted; though, without reason. Perhaps because Francis had not heeded Gilbert's warning and instead done the exact opposite of his well-intentioned advice.

                _No one listens to me_ , he sulked, catching sight of Feliciano's bright-eyed, smiling face as Ludwig spun him in a circle. Admittedly, he had never seen his younger brother so happy.

                A bubbling glass of pale champagne appeared suddenly in front of him, the ochre hand clutching it belonging to the Spaniard.

                "No hard-feelings, friend?" Antonio hoped, presenting the champagne like a peace offering.

                Gilbert's scowl cracked in the face of Antonio's smile. It was honest, for once. "No hard-feelings," he agreed, accepting the champagne. "I admire you, Toni. Well," he amended, "I admire what you achieved, and I apologize for doubting you. I didn't think it possible, but you really are a shrew-taming champion." In explanation, he bobbed his chin at Lovino, who was quietly scouring the buffet; not fussing, or complaining, or deliberately picking a fight. It was a novel sight and Gilbert was still bewildered by it.

                However, Antonio's smile tightened at Gilbert's words. "Yes," he said shortly.

                Gilbert cocked an eyebrow in curiosity. "You're unsatisfied with the result?" he guessed.

                "Oh, no! Of course not, it's just I..." Antonio's green eyes flicked to his spouse, looking less like a hunter every second. He seemed conflicted; Gilbert wondered why. "I wanted to tame the boy's wildness," Antonio lied. (Gilbert hadn't seen the lie before, but he did now. It revealed itself in the Spaniard's uncharacteristic unease.) "But I didn't want to break him so completely. Not like this."

                "Uh, break him—?" Gilbert repeated, confused. He glanced at Lovino, who looked perfectly whole to him; no broken bones like Arthur's late-husband used to gift him.

                "Yes," said Antonio vaguely.             

                Gilbert waited for the Spaniard to elaborate, but he didn't. Instead, he changed the subject. In a chipper tone that switched dizzyingly fast, Antonio said:

                "Are you disappointed, Gilbert? I know that you were hoping to wed Feliciano, too. It must have come as a shock when your brother married him."

                Antonio's tone was sympathetic, but his eyes were eager; a gossip-fisher. Gilbert frowned disapprovingly at him. "A shock, yes. I think we were all a little shocked by today. Ludwig isn't the type to..." He paused thoughtfully for a minute; Antonio waited patiently. "For Ludwig to act so rashly, he must really be in love with Feliciano," he realized.

                As he spoke the words, all lingering feelings of betrayal dissipated, replaced by a sense of peace. Looking at Ludwig across the dance-floor—blue eyes alive and twinkling—Gilbert forgave his brother for the trick he had played (a part of him had always known that he would). Perhaps the end justified the means, after all. Perhaps love really was precious enough to commit any number of atrocities and indecencies for. Gilbert didn't know, he had never been in love. He told Antonio as much.

                "That's a shame," said the Spaniard honestly.

                "Maybe," Gilbert shrugged. "It does make you do some pretty foolish things, though. Perhaps I'm better off."

                "No," Antonio disagreed, but, again, he failed to explain. Instead, his cunning green eyes raked the German and he grinned mischievously. "I think you will fall in love someday, Gil. And when you do, you'll fall hard. And it'll be all the more potent for denying yourself so long. I don't think you're made of stone," he teased, poking Gilbert's side. "I think that _somewhere_ behind that frightful exterior there's a soft, squishy heart of gold."

                Gilbert grabbed Antonio's finger and twisted it back. "Poke me again and I'll break your finger," he said, but the ghost of a smile curled his lips.

                Antonio laughed; Gilbert released him.

                "If this experience has taught me anything, it's that I'm not suited for courting," said the German decidedly. "If I do ever take a spouse, it'll be a simple, cut-and-dry affair. No tricks, no chasing, no yearning, no mess," he ticked off on his fingers. "It'll be open and dignified, the way it's supposed to be."

                Antonio's grin was skeptic. "Oh, I think not," he mused teasingly. "I think you'll be completely blindsided by it, Gilbert Beilschmidt, because you won't be expecting it. And you won't have the faintest clue what to do. You'll be so completely lost. Someday, it'll just hit you—"

                " _Oof_ —!"

                Gilbert grabbed the child's arm in reflex to steady him; his brother had accidentally sent him spiraling into the German's side.

                Matthew's pale face looked mortified. His big violet eyes were wide in apology. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

                "Never-mind," said Gilbert, letting go. He smiled—rather indulgently—and patted the child's curly head. "Be careful not to hurt yourself, _schatzi_."

                Matthew blushed in embarrassment, nodded, and then hurried back to Alfred, who loudly called: "Sorry!"

                "They're so cute," Antonio cooed shamelessly. He smiled at the giggling five-year-olds, his nose scrunched.

                "Oh, yes," said Gilbert offhandedly. "Very cute. Francis is already completely smitten. If he gets his wish and marries the crazy Brit, I sure don't envy the man who tries to court those boys." He paused. "Now, uh... what were we talking about?"

 

* * *

**LATER**

 

Ludwig stood at the head of the long, lavish banquet table and raised his champagne glass in a toast:

                "Finally, at long last, we have reconciled our differences, friends. Now it is time to laugh at all past dangers and adventures and forgive every, uh... minor discrepancy. Vater, I am humbled by your blessing," he said, bowing his head respectfully in Herr Beilschmidt's direction. The German patriarch sat to his right, beside Feliciano, whom he grudgingly acknowledged. "I am delighted to unite our families," Ludwig continued, nodding to Roma on his left. "And equally delighted to have new brothers, Antonio and Lovino." Antonio raised his glass crookedly in reply. "And friends," he added, eyeing Francis and Arthur (who looked rather dishevelled). "Congratulations on your engagement. Francis, I wish you luck in your marriage, as well. I'm sure that you'll find no better, uh... entertainment anywhere." (Gilbert snickered; Antonio choked on his champagne and snorted.) "All of you are welcome in my house, for without you I wouldn't now be wed to my fair Feliciano. Thank-you," he said in conclusion, tipping his glass to everyone—even Ivan (who refused to leave the Vargas villa until he was paid the promised fee).

                "Fetching speech, cousin. Nice and short," said Lars, leaning across Gilbert. Gilbert elbowed him in the ribs. Lars may have reciprocated, but Herr Beilschmidt's reproachful eye discouraged it.

                As the banquet carried on—as the guests drank—the atmosphere lightened.

                "Ah, sweet Padua! All these people do is sit and eat and drink!" cried Antonio happily. "It's a lifestyle I could get used to!"

                "Padua is famous for its pleasantries," Roma nodded sagely, snapping his finger for his cup-bearer.

                "I am convinced there is nothing in Padua that isn't pleasant," Antonio replied, grinning sideways at Lovino.

                "If only that were true," Francis mused. He was sitting across the room from Antonio, his arm flung blatantly over his fiancé's shoulders. Arthur was busy re-buttoning Alfred's coat, but he looked up when Antonio blurted:

                "Well, what would you know, Franny? You're engaged to a sorcerer! I bet you're afraid of him, aren't you?"

                Francis opened his mouth to reply, but Arthur beat him to it:

                "Oh, yes," he smirked playfully, leaning toward the Frenchman. "If you know what's good for you, you ought never trust me, love. I can be _very wicked_."

                "Oh? Then perhaps I should employ Toni, the shrew-tamer, to correct your _wickedness_ , _chéri_ ," said Francis flirtatiously.

                "Too afraid to do it yourself?"

                Francis' lips hovered suggestively close to Arthur's, but Lovino's voice dispelled the budding tension. Francis gaped at him in shock—so did everyone else—but the Italian boy merely smiled sweetly, as if the jape were an honest question and not a scathing insult.

                "Or, perhaps it's the competition that you fear, Monsieur Bonnefoi. I concur, for I wouldn't want to suffer the humiliation of defeat, either. Defeat would be a certainty if you challenged my husband."

                "I'm sorry," said Arthur insincerely, "but it _sounds_ like you're calling my fiancé a coward, Signore Vargas. I think, perhaps, that children should keep their lips sealed on topics they misunderstand. Or, haven't you considered _your_ position, Lovino?"

                "On the contrary," said Lovino eloquently, gold-flecked eyes glinting, "am I not living proof of my husband's prowess?" There, he paused and cast an innocent glance from face-to-face, inviting anyone to argue, but nobody did. How could they when the former spitting, snarling hell-cat was addressing them all in such a civilized manner? It was enough to confuse more than one of his former bullies, who now felt rather villainous for attacking a boy with such a sweet disposition. "No one—?" Lovino said in mock-innocence. He smiled as he recaptured Arthur's gaze, his glinting gold eyes narrowing in challenge. "Perhaps you _would_ benefit under my husband's tutelage, Mister Kirkland, and not start arguments with no evidence to support your claims. Though, I daresay, you needn't bother. Perhaps you would better serve your fiancé if you learnt to speak in circles and innuendos and quick and spiteful surrenders. That _is_ how Frenchmen communicate in my experience."

                Arthur's green eyes blazed like witch-fire, but he didn't reply.

                "Hmm," Lovino mused dismissively. "I suppose you're not so _wicked_ , after all."

 

* * *

That was a massacre," Gilbert whispered in Antonio's ear.

                Antonio would have agreed if his lips weren't pressed together, afraid that if he opened them he would burst out laughing. He, too, had watched in awe as Lovino ripped into Arthur's argument, like a kitten tearing apart a bird, a self-satisfied grin on its adorable face. The Spaniard had never been so proud of anyone, nor more impressed by a boy whom only weeks ago had fought recklessly with bared teeth, but now who had learnt to use the sharper weapon of concealed claws.

                _Oh_ , _Lovi_ , _you beautiful little hell-cat_! he thought happily. The boy's fire had not been extinguished, as he had mistakenly thought. He had only learnt how to wield it. _Give these bullies a tongue-lashing they'll never forget_!

                Lovino caught Antonio's eye and grinned.

                "Well said, Lovi! What say you to that, Francis?" Antonio hollered delightedly. "My Lovino's stinging wit has laid Arthur flat on his back!"

                Francis chuckled awkwardly, trying to quiet Arthur's simmering temper. "I believe that is _my_ job, Antonio."

                Arthur sent him a cutting glare.

                Antonio laughed and raised his champagne glass to Francis. "Yes, indeed! Here's to you, friend! Good luck!"

                "I think it is you who will need luck, brother-in-law," said Feliciano sweetly. "Everyone here knows just how liberal my brother's sharp tongue is, most have felt it."

                "No more liberal than your tongue, little brother," said Lovino, matter-of-fact. "Most have tasted it."

                Feliciano's face paled. Ludwig started to argue in his spouse's defense: "That's too far—", but an ambiguous murmur of consensus choked him. Signs of Feliciano's unsavoury history showed on the faces of young gentlemen at every table. Ludwig went red in embarrassment. Desperately, he looked at Feliciano, who had slumped down in his seat and refused to meet his husband's eyes. At that point, Antonio couldn't hold back a giddy shout of triumph:

                "Lovino Vargas, my heart is yours! I fear nothing with you at my side, my love!" He took Lovino's hand and kissed it in adoration.

                "I-I—I think I'll retire, now," said Feliciano quietly. "If you'll, uh, please excuse me..."

                "Yes," said Roma in agreement. "I think, perhaps, that would be best. Let's not fuel tempers, friends. Here!" he snapped, again, for his cup-bearer. "I think everyone needs more champagne in their bellies!"

                "Some of us need a little less of it in our heads, I think," Herr Beilschmidt muttered snidely.

                "I'm going to put the boys down to sleep in the guest bedchamber," said Arthur, standing to follow Feliciano; Matthew aloft in his arms.

                "Please allow me to assist you, Mister Kirkland. You're a guest here in my Grandpapa's house," said Lovino, rising swiftly. He hefted drowsing Alfred up into his slim arms before Arthur could protest and shot the Englishman a sickeningly sweet smile as he did so. Arthur's glare could have cut glass just then, but he managed a curt nod and then silently followed the Italians out.

 

**_Exit_ ** **FELICIANO, LOVINO, ARTHUR, ALFRED _and_ MATTHEW.**

 

The party soon resumed a cordial tone, the guests returning to private conversations as opposed to playing spectators. Antonio was still wiping tears of laughter from his eyes when Gilbert sat heavily down in Herr Beilschmidt's vacated seat beside him.

                "That was better than any players I've ever seen," he said, kicking his boots onto the table as he leant back.

                Lars joined in, crossing his arms over the back of Gilbert's high-backed chair. "It was hilarious!" he praised. "I commend you, Spaniard." He made a mock-bow.

                Antonio inclined his head politely, but he said: "I assure you, I had _very little_ to do with it. What you've just witnessed, gentlemen, is the rapier-wit of my darling Lovi."

                "I hope _you_ didn't tell him to say those horrible things," said Francis, frowning.

                Antonio smiled broadly. "Not a single one. I'm afraid that my Lovi has puzzled you out all on his own, Fran. Besides, is the truth really so horrible?"

                "The truth!" Francis spat indignantly. "He basically called me a lying coward! And my fiancé a—a—a _shrew_!"

                "That's the nicest thing people call his fiancé," Gilbert whispered to Lars, who chuckled.

                "Oh, don't be so dramatic, Fran," said Antonio condescendingly. "It was only a bit of clever word-play."

                " _Clever word-play_?" Ludwig snapped. Antonio sighed. Why must people repeat him, as if he hadn't heard his own voice? "It was cruel in Feliciano's case," said the German unhappily. "It was the bite of a jealous brother, I think. Lovino spoke out-of-turn. Now all of Padua thinks—"

                "Oh, I expect that all of Padua has _thought_ for a while," Antonio countered. "Especially since half of Roma's guests seem to have intimate knowledge of Feliciano's so-called indiscretions. I expect that several were witnesses of it, themselves; though, presumably not all at once." Antonio tapped his chin, pretending to consider it.

                Ludwig seized his shirt-front. "Insult my spouse one more time, Spaniard, I dare you!" he growled.

                "Who's insulting him?" said Antonio, feigning shock. "I'm merely telling the truth as _all of Padua_ knows it. I wouldn't dream of telling lies! Now that _would_ be embarrassing!"

                Ludwig's fist tightened, white-knuckled. Gilbert shook his head. "For God's sake, Toni," he said, exasperated, "do shut up."

                "Feliciano is a very loving spouse," Ludwig argued.

                "Yes, I never said that he wasn't loving!" Antonio said in appeasement. "All of Padua knows that he's _loving_ , but—!" he quickly continued, before Ludwig could throttle him, "he's not quite as devoted to you as my Lovi is to me, is he? It's nothing to be ashamed of, it's just a simple fact. It's not a contest. Not a close one, anyway."

                "Good God, Toni," Francis scolded, "could you be any more arrogant? A loving spouse is also a devoted one, an obedient one, everyone knows that. It's in the wedding vows. A marriage is a partnership. I would, of course, go to Arthur if needed, just as he would come to me."

                "Oh? Is that what you think?" said Antonio slyly. He grinned. "Okay then, if you're so certain of your fiancé's devotion, then let's test it, shall we?"

                Francis and Ludwig exchanged a look. "Test it how?"

                Antonio pried Ludwig's fingers loose and sat straighter, folding his hands in front of him like a businessman. He waited until he had everyone's attention—and then waited, again. Finally, when he could read impatience on every surrounding face, he said:

                "Send a footman to Lovino, Feliciano, and Arthur each," he said, "and tell them that each of us—his husband or husband-to-be—request's his immediate presence. I'll bet you twenty crowns each that my Lovi is the only one who actually obeys."

                Francis' blonde eyebrow arched incredulously. "Twenty crowns?" he repeated doubtfully. "You're really _that_ confident that you've got the most devoted spouse in _Lovino Vargas_?" Antonio nodded. Francis shook his head. "So, basically," he said mockingly, "you're _so_ confident that you'll win this bet, that you'll pay Ludwig and I twenty crowns each if Lovino is the only one who obeys. If either Arthur or Feliciano show up, you'll pay _us_ twenty crowns each?"

                "Yes, exactly."

                Again, Francis glanced at Ludwig, who's blue eyes had narrowed competitively.

                "Fine," said the German testily. He jutted his chin forward. "Call them."

 

* * *

Francis admired Antonio's confidence, really, but as they waited for their respective partners to return, he began to reconsider his friend's motives. The Spaniard had always taken impish delight in games, but this would be a very pricy gamble to lose. And lose he would. He couldn't honestly believe that his spouse was the most devoted, could he? True, even Francis had been stunned speechless by Lovino's evident transformation from shrew to enviable spouse in a few short weeks—everything about him had softened except his tongue, it seemed—but a couple of verbal victories hardly made one an admirable partner. This was Lovino Vargas, after all. He had _never_ made it through a social-gathering without losing his temper. Antonio might have masked the boy's true character, but sooner or later that mask was going to crack and reveal the Lovino Vargas whom they all knew and loathed, which was precisely why Francis had accepted the bet. Let Antonio stew in his arrogance for now. He wouldn't be grinning in a moment, when, not Lovino, but Arthur—and probably Feliciano—arrived, and a certain spiteful shrew did not.

                Francis had complete confidence in his fiancé's devotion. Arthur wasn't a fickle, temperamental youth. He had already shown loyalty and obedience to a husband; albeit, an abusive one—which only fed Francis' certainty. If Arthur had played the perfect spouse to _that_ horrible man, then he would be happy to serve a gentleman as noble as Francis, of course.

                _This is going to be the easiest twenty crowns I've ever made_ , he thought, and couldn't help but grin.

 

**_Enter_ ** **LOVINO.**

 

                That is, until Lovino re-entered the feast hall. Alone.

                "Dearest—?" he asked expectantly, laying on the sarcasm as he looked to Antonio. "Is there something that you wanted?"

                "Only you," the Spaniard replied in a low, husky voice. He looked as if Lovino's mere presence had seduced him. The idiot couldn't stop smiling, _in triumph_ , Francis thought furiously.

                The Frenchman's blue eyes fervently scoured every nook-and-cranny of the corridor, but there was no sign of Arthur. He bit his bottom lip in embarrassment, knowing that he had been made to look a fool; knowing in his heart that he had fallen victim to one of Antonio's sly tricks. Francis, who had always taken pleasure in his friend's schemes, realized that he did not find them quite as funny when he was on the losing side.

                "Lovi," said Antonio smoothly, "where are Arthur and Feliciano?"

                Lovino looked between the baffled faces of the young Germanic brood and simply shrugged. "I don't know. I put Alfred down to bed, then went to the kitchen for sweets," he admitted. "Why? Is something wrong?"

                "Absolutely not," Antonio purred, still staring at his spouse as if he wanted to devour him then and there.

                "This is absurd!" Ludwig snapped. "You've done something, haven't you, Lovino? You've done something to prevent Feliciano from coming here to me. Go back and fix it, you nasty little hobgoblin! Go back and release my Feli! Go now!" he ordered in outrage.

                Lovino looked at the German as if he was something disgusting that had started to spontaneously speak, like a slug.

                " _Feli_ —?" Lars repeated under his breath. Gilbert shrugged in mock-pity.

                "Lovi, _chiquito_ ," said Antonio, re-capturing the boy's keen attention. "Will you fetch Arthur and Feliciano for me, please?"

                Lovino's gold-flecked eyes narrowed, trying to read his husband's intent, but he said: "Yes, dearest," and left.

 

**_Exit_ ** **LOVINO.**

 

                Francis stood rigid, statuesque, and didn't speak to or acknowledge anyone until Arthur appeared.

 

**_Enter_ ** **ARTHUR.**

 

The Englishman looked disgruntled as he entered the hall, but as he neared the circle of young gentlemen, his fey-like face took on a serene expression. He locked eyes with Francis, and Francis felt a sudden chill as those piercing green eyes penetrated him deep. He squared his posture as Arthur approached, trying to look taller. Antonio's teasing words came screaming back to him: _I bet you're afraid of him_ , _aren't you_? Of course not, he thought, even as he remained transfixed by the slow, deliberate steps of his fiancé. It was the first time the Englishman had ever looked graceful, and he didn't seem bothered by the way his audience's eyes followed his every movement. The mental-image of a lioness momentarily flashed before Francis' eyes, then Arthur was in front of him.

                "Francis, love," he said in a sweet, even voice.

                Francis relaxed. Arthur might be piqued by the interruption, but he would never—

                _SLAP_!

                Francis' head whipped sideways and his cheek stung where Arthur's hand had connected. Behind him, his audience howled and laughed in ridicule, but Francis had been (literally) struck dumb. His blue eyes widened and his mouth fell open in utter bewilderment as he looked at his fiancé.

                Arthur's serenity morphed into a glare. "If you ever summon me like a bloody servant again, I swear I'll make you regret it. If you _ever_ send that little brat to fetch me, I'll make certain you never _summon up_ anything ever again."

                His green eyes momentarily flicked to the Frenchman's groin and back in clarification.

                Francis gaped. "I-I—I don't understand," he stuttered. "Arthur, _chéri_ , I thought... I thought you loved me?"

                "I do love you, Francis. I want to marry you, and I want you to be a papa to my boys. I want it very much," he admitted, his voice softening. "But I _won't_ play second-fiddle to another man. I've done it before; I won't do it again. I want to be your spouse, not your slave. Perhaps that's something you need to consider before we're married, because I _won't_ change my mind no matter how much I love you. I want to be your partner, Francis Bonnefoi, or nothing at all."

                That said, Arthur turned swiftly on his heel and strode away, leaving Francis gobsmacked at the mercy of the other men, though—truth be told—he barely heard their cruel jokes and jeers. He was too focused on Arthur. Despite the waspish sting in his reddening cheek, Francis watched his fiancé's retreat with an intense, animal hunger that was quickly spreading to the southern regions of his body. Again, he bit his lip.

                "I shouldn't have found that sexy, should I?" he said to Antonio and Gilbert, who stepped up beside him. His eyes were plastered to the gentle sway of Arthur's hips.

                "No," said Gilbert starkly. Antonio bobbed his head in a so-so fashion.

                "But the truth is, I did," Francis continued, as if Gilbert hadn't spoken. (Gilbert rolled his eyes: " _Nobody ever listens to me_.") "I'm afraid I must take my leave of this party, gentleman. Congratulations, Toni," said the Frenchman, tossing Antonio a purse of gold coins without looking back. He didn't even count them, too enraptured by his fiancé's retreat. "All the best with Lovino, my friend. Do visit if you're ever in Paris. _Au Revoir_!" he called over-the-shoulder to the others as he ran off in pursuit of Arthur, shamelessly calling-out the Englishman's name:

                " _Arthur_ , _slow down and wait for me_ , chéri!"

                The last they heard was Arthur's candid reply: " _We will_ not _be living in bloody Paris._ "

 

* * *

Before they had even entered the corridor, Francis grabbed the back of Arthur's golden head and pulled him urgently into a deep, French kiss. (Ludwig swore he saw their tongues touch before their mouths tried to devour each other.)

 

**_Enter_ ** **FELICIANO _and_ LOVINO.**

 

                They hadn't yet parted when Feliciano appeared, looking miffed. He dodged the rambunctious couple with a roll of his molten-gold eyes and then continued into the feast hall, annoyed as Lovino prodded him like a goatherd from behind. He swatted at his older brother, and as he did the light of the chandelier caught the glossy sheen of his tunic and reflected off the subtle strings of silver and gold embellishing the boy's fine wedding clothes. Ludwig might have been displeased with him, but he still felt the breath go out of him when he looked upon the figure of his young spouse. Feliciano was so incomparably beautiful. He looked so like an angel, there must be some explanation for his negligence in obeying Ludwig's request.

                _There must be_.

 

**_Exit_ ** **FRANCIS _and_ ARTHUR.**

 

                Feliciano stopped in front of the half-circle of young gentleman, directly before his newlywed husband, and Ludwig swallowed a mouthful of saliva. He cleared his throat, trying to look stern, but the boy merely crossed his thin arms; cocked his hip; and tilted his head at a rigid angle, an auburn lock falling softly into his irritated face. He didn't deign to speak, but his eyes were wide and demanding an explanation of his husband. Just then, he looked precisely his age, Ludwig thought, which was sixteen-(spoiled)-years-old.

                "Feliciano," Ludwig asked, "why did you not come when I called for you?" He cast Lovino a nasty, accusatory look; Lovino scowled back, but let Feliciano do the talking.

                The golden-eyed boy smiled, but it was not kind. "Am I supposed to just drop everything if you call me? I was very busy."

                " _Sleeping_ ," Lovino corrected, but Ludwig didn't acknowledge him.

                "Yes, actually, I _do_ expect you to come when I call for you," Ludwig challenged, regarding his spouse with something akin to disbelief, though it was hard to tell. He didn't have as expressive a face as the Italian(s).

                Feliciano scoffed. "I'm not your dog, Lud. But I'm here now,"—he shot Lovino a glare—"so what do you need, my husband?"

                "I don't need anything _now_. I needed you to come here the first time I called, Feli," said Ludwig.

                In grudging defeat, he ceded his purse to Antonio, who made a show of sticking his hand inside and letting the gold fall teasingly through his fingers. It took serious self-control—and a warning look from Gilbert—to prevent Ludwig reaching out and choking the idiot Spaniard, who was just asking for it. Ludwig briefly wondered if there was anywhere on earth Antonio Fernández Carriedo didn't have enemies.

                The exchange of coins caught Feliciano's eye.

                "I sincerely hope," he cut in, frowning, "you didn't just call me back here to settle a petty gamble, Ludwig."

                Ludwig opened his mouth to reply (perhaps to lecture), but closed it again when—to his horror—Feliciano's golden eyes flooded with tears.

                "Have I not already been humiliated enough in this company?" he cried. His full lips upturned and quivered; his smooth forehead creased; his eyes widened and his lashes clumped. He looked genuinely upset. Gone was the innocent angel and the spoiled brat alike, his charming veneer cracked to reveal the boy's true messy feelings for the first time since Ludwig—or anyone else, it seemed—had known him. He dropped his arms helplessly to his sides, his hands balled into fists, and looked up into the shocked face of his husband. Quietly, he said: "Do you really need more proof that I don't deserve you, Lud?"

                Ludwig was at Feliciano's side in the blink of an eye, reaching to comfort the boy's (surprisingly) fragile self-confidence. As his arms closed protectively around the boy, he couldn't help but glance back over-the-shoulder at his audience, all of whom had gone disconcertingly quiet when Feliciano burst into tears. None of them cheered, like they had when Arthur struck Francis; none of them looked like celebrating, which Ludwig was grateful for. His dignity had already taken a punch; it wouldn't have survived a tongue-lashing at the expense of his pride, not peacefully anyway. But more than anything, his wolfish temper wouldn't dare let anyone insult _his_ spouse, _his_ Feliciano, especially not as Feliciano cried onto his chest. Soothingly, he stroked the boy's head.

                " _There_ , _there_ ," he whispered, conveying his concern in a meaningless mantra. He squeezed Feliciano, his big body dwarfing the Italian and shielding him from prying eyes. "I'm sorry, _schatz_. I didn't mean to be so..." _ignorant_ , _insensitive_ , _immoveable_. "I didn't mean to," he repeated softly, feeling ashamed of his inability to voice self-criticism. Instead, he pressed an apologetic kiss to the crown of Feliciano's auburn head.

                "I'm sorry, too," Feliciano whispered, and at first Ludwig thought he was only being kind, but he continued:

                "I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry I'm not the boy you thought you had married." Feliciano kept his head bowed, too ashamed to face his husband. Instead, he clutched fistfuls of the German's tunic. "I'm sorry I'm not perfect. I'm not. I'm not, and... I really don't want to be. It's too much work. The truth is, I'm lazy and vain and jealous and spiteful and selfish and I _hate_ studying more than anything in the world!" he gasped. He was crying; there were tears in his voice. "But I faked it," he confessed. "I pretended to be something that I'm not, something that I knew you wanted, because I wanted you to like me. Because I liked you. A lot. The truth is, I fell in love with you the first time I saw you, Lud, and I hoped, prayed, that you would fall in love with me, too. I'm not perfect, but I _do_ love you, Ludwig. I just didn't think you would ever love me if you knew the real Feliciano Vargas. You deserve so much better than me, Lud. Your father—everyone—knows it.

                "I'm sorry," he repeated, voice softening. "Can you ever forgive me?"

                It took Ludwig a full minute to unhinge his tongue. " _Yes_ ," he said, breathless. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes," he said as he gently lifted Feliciano's head. The boy's eyes shone; he even _cried_ beautifully. "Of course, I forgive you."

                A tear fell from Feliciano's eye and rolled down his rosy cheek. "Do you love me less now?" he asked, afraid.

                "No," Ludwig shook his head. He leant down, enveloping the boy in his arms, and said: "If it's possible, I love you more. I don't need the perfect spouse to be happy, _schatz_. I just need you."

                Feliciano wrapped his arms around Ludwig's neck and squeezed him tightly, their cheeks brushed. "Oh, Lud. I've made so many mistakes..." he worried, but Ludwig shushed him.

                "So have I," he admitted. "I should never have tried to trick you, _schatz_. It was dishonest, and I'm sorry. But that's all done with now. It's all in the past. Tonight is our new beginning, Feliciano. Together," he added, pulling back to meet the Italian's soft gaze. The boy looked vulnerable, yet hopeful. He looked like a boy lost in love. _He's perfect_ , Ludwig thought, and kissed him chastely. Feliciano made a sound halfway between a groan and a sob and deepened the kiss, cupping the back of Ludwig's head and pulling him down, closer.

                "I love you," he said when they parted. "I love you, Ludwig Beilschmidt."

                Ludwig smiled. "I love you, too, _schatz_."

 

**_Exit_ ** **LUDWIG _and_ FELICIANO.**

 

* * *

Ludwig and Feliciano left the banquet hall without a word or backward glance to anyone, as if they had forgotten their audience, lost in each other's eyes. _Like two newlyweds ought to be_ , Antonio thought. He found himself staring at his own beautiful young spouse, which provoked a mix of combating feeling within him. Lovino's face revealed a shred of annoyance, but mostly he looked relieved to be let off the hook, no longer the centre-of-attention. In light of Arthur's temper and Feliciano's sorrow, nobody was paying Lovino any mind. Francis and Ludwig had both been called away by their respective spouse's unspoken requests, and Gilbert and Lars had been intercepted by Herr Beilschmidt, which left Antonio alone in the middle of the feast hall with Lovino, to whom he didn't know what to say. He knew what he _wanted_ to say to Lovino—he knew what he wanted to _do_ to Lovino; he absently licked his lips—but something in the boy's posture prevented him from approaching. Instead, Antonio watched Lovino from a distance, waiting for something. A sign, perhaps.

                _Do you love me_ , _Lovino_? _Do you want me like Feliciano wants Ludwig_? _Like Arthur wants Francis_? _Do you want me like I want you_ , _my darling_?

                _I'm sorry_ , he thought, finally recognizing the uneasy feeling for what it was. _I'm sorry for hurting you_ , _Lovi_ , _but I'm not sorry for what you've become. I've never been prouder of anyone in my entire life_ , _including myself_.

                As Antonio gazed upon the boy, he saw the little changes in him that had left everyone else speechless. It was subtle. He was still Lovino Vargas at his core, still fierce and wickedly clever, but his posture was relaxed, no longer on the defensive. He no longer resembled a kicked cornered dog, back up and teeth bared. He held himself upright in a dignified, self-confident manner now. His gold-flecked eyes lazily scanned the large hall like a sharpshooter, no longer afraid of an ambush. It may have been an act, or maybe not; if it was, it was a good one. Antonio was glad that Lovino no longer looked afraid of his surroundings, of verbal and physical abuse, but he couldn't help wondering if he had something to do with it. He wondered if Lovino would feel just as safe if his husband, Antonio, wasn't present. And he wondered if he, Antonio, really wanted him to be or not.

                _Has he truly improved himself_ , _or have I only made him reliant upon me_? _Is that even what I want_?

                Antonio was a bastard-born, a vagabond, who was secretly terrified of losing control. He thirsted for it like a parched man thirsts for water. His pride, his stubbornness, his competitiveness, his greed all stemmed from the same inferiority-complex, which Antonio was mortally ashamed of. Looking at Lovino, his throat tightened in guilt, in fear. He wanted Lovino by his side, always. But what if he grew too independent? What if he grew apart from his husband and didn't need him anymore? The thought of losing Lovino sent a cold shiver down Antonio's spine. And suddenly he realized that Lovino wasn't the only one who had changed in the past few weeks.

                He had changed, too.

                Somehow, without even realizing it, in trying to tame Lovino, Antonio had unwittingly tamed his own lust for power. Or, Lovino had. It was a sobering thought. Antonio had never been good at self-reflection, but he had to admit that he no longer hungered for power, or wealth, or status the way he had mere weeks ago; and it was no longer losing control that frightened him the most. It was losing Lovino. It was losing the boy's respect, his trust. His love.

                "Lovino," he croaked weakly.

                The boy's gold-flecked gaze swivelled to meet his. Antonio strode impulsively to him and grabbed the boy's hands to the surprise of them both.

                "I love you, Lovino," he blurted tactlessly. "For real," he added, noting Lovino's confusion. "I thought I loved your family's wealth, but I don't. I don't care about it anymore. It's you, Lovino. I think it's always been you. I was just too proud to see it before.

                "I'm sorry," he said quickly, cutting off Lovino's reply. "I'm so sorry for everything I put you through. Please forgive me, _cariño_."

                Lovino's cheeks went tomato-red. Whether it was the tender term-of-endearment, or the fact that Antonio knelt down on one knee before his spouse in the middle of the feast hall, Antonio didn't know. What he _did_ know was that, for the first time, it wasn't an act; it wasn't a script; it wasn't a show. Just then, Antonio didn't give a damn who was watching them. It could be everyone; it could be no one. He didn't give a damn about anything or anyone except for Lovino Vargas, his spouse, the unexpected love of his life.

                "Get up, Toni. You look like a fool," Lovino muttered, head bowed.

                "No," said Antonio. "Not until you forgive me, _cariño._ Please."

                "There's nothing to forgive," Lovino said, trying half-heartedly to pull his hands free of Antonio's grasp. The Spaniard squeezed tighter in reply. "Toni, you gave me something no one else ever has—your trust. You trusted me, and you believed in me. But more than that, you reminded me of the person I've always wanted to be. The person I think I've always been deep down. So, there's nothing to forgive. You're unpredictable, Toni, but you always took care of me. I was never in any real danger with you, and I was never really afraid of you. Maybe I should have been," he mused, "but I wasn't. I didn't want to marry you," he admitted, eyes flicking to meet Antonio's, "but I... I'm glad that I did. I'm glad, because I..."

                Lovino pursed his lips. Gently, Antonio squeezed his hands in encouragement, holding his intense gold gaze.

                "I love you, too," Lovino whispered, blushing redder. "At least, I'm pretty sure I do," he added, smiling coyly. "I've never felt this way before."

                "Me neither," Antonio replied honestly. "But please, Lovino— _please_ , I need you to forgive me. I can't forgive myself until I hear you say it."

                Earnestly, he bowed his head over their clasped hands, waiting like a nervous vassal for Lovino's acceptance, surrendering himself to be judged and ready to accept whatever judgement that might be.

                Lovino made him wait; made Antonio sweat. Then he sighed softly.

                "Okay," he agreed. "I forgive you, Antonio. I forgive you for being the wildest, goofiest, most unpredictable and unorthodox man I've ever met. I forgive you for taking me on an adventure that saw me cold and hungry, scared at times, and miserable. I forgive you for embarrassing me, for playing your games and forcing me into this marriage, but not for always standing by me. Not for protecting me, not for helping me realize who I really am, and that I don't give a damn what anyone else thinks. I don't forgive you for restoring my confidence, for supporting me, for shielding my fears, for laughing with me, or for making me fall hopelessly in love with you.

                "Now, get up," he repeated, mock-stern. "You look ridiculous kneeling on the floor."

                Antonio felt relief envelope him.  Swiftly he stood, but he didn't release Lovino's hands. "Oh, Lovi, I couldn't have asked for a better partner," he said. "You're the one I want by my side playing this game of life with me. You're strong-willed and clever and talented and so, so beautiful. Any man would be proud to call you his spouse. Any man would feel lucky to have you. I know I am. But more than anything else, I just really love being with you, Lovi. You make me happier than I've ever been. _Truly_ happy. You're incredible, _cariño_."

                "I am, rather," Lovino teased. "But..." He leant forward, closing the gap between them, and whispered: "I feel the same way about you, Toni. I like being with you—my _madly_ handsome husband," he added, smiling coyly.

                Lovino gasped in surprised delight as Antonio swept him suddenly off his feet.

                "What are you doing?" he asked, looping his arms around Antonio's neck.

                "Why, taking you on a second honeymoon, of course!" the Spaniard grinned. Then kissed him.

 

* * *

Lovino closed his eyes and murmured indulgently as he pulled Antonio's face down, closer to his. He loved the feel of Antonio's lips brushing his, sucking his; he loved the taste of Antonio's slick tongue. He opened his mouth, permitting the other entrance, and moaned softly to encourage his eager husband. He didn't even care that they were standing in the middle of the feast hall, on display for all to see. A part of him had always been anxious in social gatherings, afraid of being ridiculed. He had always attacked in defense, trying to protect himself from an unexpected ambush before it happened, but now he didn't even think of it. Now, he didn't fear bullies or anything else, not with Antonio by his side. He felt safe and admired and respected in Antonio's arms. He felt loved. And everyone else be damned! Absently, he felt the Spaniard's gait increase as they moved, directionless, toward an exit. Any exit.

 

**_Exit_ ** **ROMA, HERR BEILSCHMIDT, GILBERT, LARS _and_ IVAN.**

 

The sweet scent of roses told Lovino that they had entered the garden. He could hear the sea crashing on rocks below; he could smell the salt breeze kiss the sweat off his skin; he could feel the warmth of his husband's roaming hands. One slipped wantonly beneath the boy's clothes to rest on his naked skin, stroking him gently, enticingly. Lovino tensed at first, then emitted a gasp of audible pleasure and arched into Antonio's passionate embrace. It felt so good. He loved the Spaniard's bright eyes, gorgeous smile, his deliciously talented hands.

                "You know," he said as Antonio laid him down in the dove-white gazebo, hidden from the feast hall, "we only just returned from our honeymoon, dearest."

                Antonio's figure loomed above him, a silhouette made of dark shadows and silver moonlight. His shirtfront had fallen open to reveal a generous amount of smooth skin beneath. His white teeth flashed in a hungry grin, and his emerald-green eyes twinkled happily. He leant down.

                "Ah, that wasn't a honeymoon, _cariño_. That was just a vacation, just practise. It was missing a very important aspect of honeymoons. It was missing _this_ ," he said softly, bowing his head to kiss Lovino. "This is going to be our _real_ honeymoon, _cariño._ This is going to be our _real_ beginning.

                "I love you, Lovino Vargas," he whispered, gazing into his spouse's soft face.

                Lovino smiled and kissed him again. "I love you, too, Antonio Fernández Carriedo. My dearest husband."

 

**_Exit_ ** **ANTONIO _and_ LOVINO**

* * *

 

  **FIN**

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